#and i feel it cling to my fingers a little or it feels dusty even with no actual dist

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

Given To The Wild [Javi Peña]

three parts, three The Maccabees songs from their Given To The Wild album.

pairing: javi peña x f!reader

word count: 2.3K

summary: "He knows her. Had seen her around—always with her head down, quiet, perhaps even tedious, and marked by an invisible link to Stechner—a connection that would normally kindle Javier's disdain effortlessly. However, this time, the sight of her distress unnerves him more than he cares to admit."

warnings: reader is she/her, drinking, cursing, overall safe to read

Part 01 - Ayla | Part 02 - Go | Part 03 - Free To Follow | Part 04 - Unknown

—

It’s late in the day when he decides to make his escape. 

Just as the sun’s starting to think about dipping low, Javier steps out, only pausing to light up a cigarette. And then, tucking one hand into the pocket of his pressed trousers, he descends stairs. There are a few colleagues congregating at the landing. Faces he’d seen before but cannot, or simply isn’t bothered to attach names to. They offer greetings; he responds with polite nods, his stride unbroken and his mind elsewhere.

The embassy itself is a fortified compound with high walls,  rigorous security checks, and guards with an eye for detail so sharp, they'd notice a pin drop before it hit the ground—except, maybe, the small pathway that snakes its way around the building. The very same one that leads to a hidden corner. 

Javier's little slice of nowhere.

The air there is stale, thick with the dust and stories of the city it overlooks—a stark contrast to the crisp, air-conditioned corridors he’s left behind. And most of all, it’s quiet.

Except, when he gets there, it isn’t. 

Javier spots her before she can catch the sight of him as she is too busy fighting a silent battle against a ghost only she can see. 

He knows her. Had seen her around—always with her head down, quiet, perhaps even tedious, and marked by an invisible link to Stechner—a connection that would normally kindle Javier's disdain effortlessly. However, this time, the sight of her distress unnerves him more than he cares to admit. 

Curled into herself against the dusty wall, her breaths are coming in short sharp gasps as if each inhale is a hard-won triumph itself. Her hands are entwined in her hair, a silent scream that her head has grown too burdensome for her neck, and her shoes lay abandoned beside her as if they’re the last of her worries. 

Javier pauses, torn between the urge to leave and a flicker of empathy that simmers inside of him at the sight. 

“Hey,” he offers before he can talk himself out of it—the gravel under his shoes betraying his approach. “You alright?” 

Her startled gaze meets his, a storm of surprise, perhaps embarrassment, swirling in her eyes. 

“I… yeah, I’m fine. Just needed to… breathe, I guess?” Her attempt to articulate her thoughts stumbles, her fingers brushing back strands of hair, some of which cling stubbornly to her sweat-dampened forehead. 

Offering advice feels clumsy on Javier's tongue. “Breathing’s good,” he remarks, internally chastising himself for the banality of his advice.

Yet, she seems to take no offence. “That much I know,” she responds with a strained smile. "I just can't... seem to catch enough of it,” her words falter, barely making it past her lips. 

Javier feels an inexplicable tug, a pull towards... something. It's enough for him to drop his cigarette and crush it under his heel as he moves closer. 

“Okay, listen to me. Just focus on the sound of my voice, alright? We're gonna breathe together. Nice and slow,” he instructs, taking deliberate breaths to set a pace for her. “Inhale... hold it... now exhale. There you go, just like that,” his tone is gentle, yet firm, encouraging.

After her breathing evens out, she's quiet. Time passes—a minute, maybe two—before she ventures, her voice tinged with vulnerability, “Why are you helping me?”

Javier, bemused, as if the answer is self-evident, replies lightly, “Why wouldn't I help?”

Her eyelids flutter open, revealing a pair of striking eyes that dart away, cautious, not quite meeting his, and Javier wonders if she’s actually not aloof or uptight as he had pegged her for.

Perhaps, she is just… shy?

Her answer is preceded by a shrug. “It’s just… I know all about the tension with Stechner… kinda makes this awkward, no?” she offers. “But, look—I'm not them. I have no interest in being them. All I'm trying to do is survive, really. Pay my bills, chase after a few dreams.”

It quickly dawns on him that she's trying to apologise for her situation.

Silly girl—he thinks to himself as he shifts a little, seeking a more comfortable position on the unforgiving concrete. He stretches out, the movement languid, and a soft sigh breaks free as he fishes another cigarette from the pack. He offers one to her, already anticipating her refusal, which comes as a gentle shake of her head.

He exhales a stream of smoke, the smirk never quite leaving his face. “If I judged everyone by their associations, I’d be a very lonely man. You're alright by me."

"That's good to hear."

He nods. She nods back.

“So…,” he starts again, his tone casual but probing, “what had you fighting for air?”

She is contemplating as she picks at a loose thread on her trousers, a colour that does no favours for anyone. “I don’t know… well, I kinda do—,” she starts, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, “but it's hard to imagine you'd actually want to listen.”

“You wound me,” Javier retorts, his voice tinged with mock offence.

Twisting her fingers in her lap, she looks up, focusing on nothing in particular. “It’s just… every day feels like walking a tightrope, y’know?” She pauses as if gathering her thoughts. "And it's not just the politics, which are a labyrinth in their own right. It's the people—colleagues who smile in your face while sharpening knives for your back. The constant second-guessing of allies and the pressure to stay one step ahead of... well, everyone." She shakes her head, the weariness evident. "And when you do find the lapse, when you patch up one leak, there's always another waiting. It's... exhausting.”

Javier nods. Looks at the cigarette between his fingers, and then glances at her. “You ever think about walking away?”

She pauses, the question seeming to pull her from a sea of thoughts. With a sigh, she leans back slightly against the cool wall, the tension in her shoulders easing as she finds her words.

"Every day," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper, resonating with a mix of resignation and defiance. "But, you know, fear's got a tight grip. And hope…,” she trails off and then shrugs once more, as if she’s hoping that he’ll get the hint.

And he does. Moreover, he knows exactly what she means. 

“Yes, I get it,” he admits at last. 

"I'm sorry," she begins, her voice carrying a hint of regret, "It was silly of me to just... unload everything on you like that."

"You're fine. I asked for it, didn't I?" Javier's response comes with a reassuring ease, his tone gentle yet firm, dismissing her concern. He allows the silence that follows to stretch, using the time to savour the last of his cigarette. Then, slowly, rising to his feet, he offers her a hand. "Come on, let's get you up."

Hesitantly, she takes his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. There’s a moment of awkwardness as she steadies herself, brushing off the dust from her clothes. Ever so gentleman, Javier then bends down to collect her shoes, and offers his arm for support as she slips them on. 

“Thanks again,” she mumbles. “But, I better get going.”

He nods in response, but says nothing, and it’s only after she rounds the corner and disappears from his view does he realise that he hadn’t asked her about her name.

—

Twelve days have passed and Javier still doesn’t know her name.

That’s not to say that she is a stranger. At least, not any longer. No, she’s a presence now. Fleeting and ephemeral. 

Their exchanges are brief—a nod of his, a ghost of a smile of hers, the brush of their elbows in the corridor’s fleeting passings; two planets sharing an orbit, if only for a moment. 

Except when they linger. 

It's in those unguarded moments across from Stechner's office, under the guise of his own preoccupations with the damn copier, that he finds his gaze seeking out for her. That's when she becomes unmistakably vivid: seated behind the desk, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, fingers deftly dancing across her keyboard.

This newfound awareness of her is disorienting and unsettling, to say the least. And as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Javier finds himself searching for her, even though they never speak again, not really.

She never shows up at that spot where their paths first crossed, not that Javier's really keeping track. Or so he tells himself. It's just routine, or coincidence maybe, that he ends up back there more often than not. He’d deny it if asked—deny that he's looking for her, deny that part of him hopes to see her again. Because it's not like him to dwell on what's probably nothing more than a chance encounter, but there he is, making excuses to check that alley, as if he's expecting something to come of it.

Sixteen days in, and Javier’s mood is thunderous, a brooding storm of frustration fueled by Stoddard’s latest stunt. He’s all but stalking towards his usual solace at the back of the building, annoyance riding him hard. The last thing he expects—the last thing he thinks he needs—is company.

Yet, there she is, a quiet presence against the wall, her lunch abandoned, book in hand, shoes kicked off just like that first day.

“¡Ostia!” The curse slips out, raw and instinctive, before he can catch it, his hand coming up to shield his eyes.

A part of him—a damned stubborn part—wants to hold on to his anger, to remain unaffected by her presence. But there’s another part, quieter, more insistent, that recoils at the thought of her seeing him like this.

He breathes out a long breath through his nose and tugs on his tie in order to loosen it.

Why the fuck is he wearing a tie?

“Want me to leave?” she suddenly asks, and only then Javier realises that he hadn’t really made an effort to go back before she had a chance to spot him. 

He struggles to form an answer—the anger, or rather annoyance at Stoddard, thickening his tongue. It's the sight of her gently marking her page with a thumb, the careful closing of her book, that jolts him back to reality. 

“No,” he says, trying to lose his voice of its earlier edge. “I’m not… it’s not you,” he adds gruffly, struggling to navigate his words while fiddling with his cigarettes. “It’s just… Stoddard has been a real pain lately.”

She nods, but says nothing as he lights up one, and takes a deep drag, raking a hand through his hair. Then, she’s speaking again, gently. “Well, if you want to talk about it…”

Leaving the invitation hanging, she opens the door for Javier—the one he’s not obliged to walk through. So, he doesn’t. Instead, he shakes his head, releasing the cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

“Nah, it’s not worth the breath,” he dismisses, yet appreciates the gesture more than he wants to admit. 

Then, with a grace that seems to contradict the setting, she is suddenly leaning over to the other side of her, reaching into a bag that Javier hadn’t noticed before. Wordlessly, she pulls out a flask, unscrews the cap, and offers it to him with a timid smile. 

“Here, might take the edge off.”

Eyebrow raised, Javier accepts it. It’s heavier than it looks, cold against his palm. 

“Now, this is a surprise,” he chuckles as he leans back against the wall, sniffing out a familiar aroma. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to carry whiskey around.”

“It's for emergencies,” she quips, the corners of her lips tilting up more noticeably now. “Consider this one. M'not good at breathing exercises, but this'll do.”

Javier smirks and takes a first sip.

It feels like a wordless communion as they pass the flask back and forth, the silence between them filled with the soft sounds of the city beyond their secluded spot. And it’s not a surprise that that’s exactly what Javier had hoped for when he stormed out of the office, annoyed with Stoddard, the case, with himself. 

He craved silence. No probing questions. No forced understanding. No digging deep.

After a few rounds, she breaks the silence, her voice tentative, betraying a hint of hesitance that hadn’t been there moments ago. “Are you...um, going to the bureau thing later this week?”

Her question tumbles out awkwardly, as if she's navigating through it in real-time, her eyes not quite meeting his.

Javier's response is immediate, a touch of sarcasm lacing his tone as he takes another sip before passing the flask back to her. “Probably not. Mixing private and professional?” He lets out a short, humourless laugh to a joke only he understands. “Ain’t really my style.”

“Fair enough.”

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with unasked questions and unsaid words. Then, almost against his better judgement, Javier finds himself speaking, curiosity edging out his initial reluctance. “You going to be there?”

She hesitates, her fingers tracing the edge of the flask. “I usually skip these things,” she confesses, a slight shrug accompanying her words. “But lately, I've felt...on the edge, thinking maybe it's time to stop being such a...hermit. Plus, Katie’s been kind to me.”

Under his breath, Javier mutters a curse, more to himself than to her. The words are bitter, carrying the weight of a regret he doesn't care to examine too closely—the aftermath of a one-night stand with Katie that had complicated things more than he'd like to admit.

“It's her birthday,” she adds as if she's trying to clear up the fog that sits on Javier's understanding. Then, abruptly, her calm shatters. “Oh, fuck—” she exclaims, eyes widening as they catch the time on her watch while she's gathering her things. “I've got a meeting in ten minutes.”

Reflexively Javier reaches out his hand, and this time, she doesn't hesitate to take him up on his offer to help her up. Her hand is cold against his. Tiny, too.

As she begins to hurry away, she pauses—a moment of hesitation—then turns back to him. With a small, decisive motion, she retrieves the flask, extending it towards him once more.

“Wait, why—?” Javier starts, confusion threading his voice.

“You can refill it and give it back some other time."

Javier doesn't know what to say so he nods, and with that, she's turning around and hurrying away, cradling her belongings to her chest as she yet again disappears behind the building.

“¡Mierda!” he finds himself hissing as he looks down at the flask in his palm, realisation burning his chest.

He still doesn't know her name.

[greetingfromthedead]

Bound (Wolfwood x F!Reader)

Plot: Lucky you've found an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere where Wolfwood can play the villain to his heart's content. Who am I kidding? There is no plot here.

Series: None (oneshot)

Pairing: Wolfwood x F!Reader

Raiting: NSFW!! 18+!! R!! Explicit!! Minors DNI

Tags: no use of y/n, pwp, smut, light BDSM, light bondage, vaginal fingering, hand job, p in v sex

Word count: 2k

Author's Note: Was I supposd to edit my series? Yes. Did I get lost writing Wolfwood smut? Also yes (meant to only write like 700 words of this).

The clouds in your head start to retreat, clearing your mind enough to look around in the dusty room. Your limbs are still as heavy as lead, and your breathing is sluggish. The tattered remains of the bugnet dangle from the ceiling, eaten up by the worms it was meant to keep out. The material brushes over your bare skin as the wind from the open window sways the curtains. The last golden rays of sunshine pour into the room, casting a warm glow over the decaying attic you find yourself in. A sharp sting of cigarette smoke brings you back into the moment, and you turn your head to see the tanned figure lean out the window. He takes a long drag, his dark hair is sweaty as he pushes it back. You look at his naked body, the curve of his back, and ass. You can't help but feel a rush of desire wash over you. How is that even possible? How have you not gotten your fill yet?

Your eyes move a little further to see the cross leaning against the wall beside the man. The weapon of mass destruction gleams there in all its glory, lightly glowing. The belts, usually keeping the firearm wrapped in cloth, are currently tying you to the old and creaky bed. The air brushing over the damp parts of your skin makes you shudder. You feel your core still leaking; the wet covers cling to your ass. You finally wake completely from your pleasure induced haze and remember the mercyless teasing and torture you've been through.

"Nico," you whisper, longing for him to come back for more.

The man by the window turns around, a crooked grin on his face as the cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. Your gaze glides over his body downward; you see the shift in his posture as he pushes himself away from the windowsill. His eyes lock onto yours, a mischievous spark in them that sends a shiver down your spine. He is hard as steel. Still, or again? You're not sure.

"Hey, Poppet, you're back I see," he says with a smirk. "I started to think you tapped out for the night."

"I didn't think it would have stopped you," you exhale, your breathing finally returning to a normal pace.

"I'm not a monster." He chuckles lightly as he walks closer to the bed, his hungry eyes never leaving yours. "I only play the part of a villain."

"Yes, of course, the big bad wolf." You purr as you try to lean closer towards him, but the restraints around your wrists keep you as you are.

"For you, I'll be the Devil himself, Doll." He takes the last long draw of his cigarette before extinguishing it on the nightstand. "I want you to know exactly who's in control here."

"What kind of priest talks like that?" You tease him as you struggle against the bindings.

"Oh, darling, you should not have said that," he responds with a wicked grin. He leans his knee onto the edge of the bed, and the old mattress lets out a long and whiny complaint. The priest then leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear, and whispers, "You make me want to do deprived things to you."

His warm hand slowly caresses your tender body, fingers dancing over your breast and down your stomach, sending shivers along your spine. He fills you with anticipation again, like he has never touched you before. The elbow of his other arm leans into the pillow under your head, his long fingers framing your face as he leans close. You lift your head to meet his lips, but he pulls away, his eyes glinting with mischief and desire.

"Needy little thing, aren't you?" His hot breath tingles your skin, and he looks down at your body as if drinking it up. His fingers reach your aching core, and you can't help but arch your back in pleasure. Everything is still overly sensitive from the multiple earth shattering orgasms he has brought forth already. Your hips try to jerk away in an attempt to escape the overwhelming sensation, but the knots around your ankles won't let you get far.

"Are you trying to run from me, Little Rabbit?" Wolfwood speaks as his lips graze our neck. "You shouldn't do that. It only makes the game more exciting."

You squirm against the restraints as he firmly strokes through your sensitive folds. The heat in your core is a wildfire; you hear the wet sounds his hand makes against your bits.

"I tell you what. If you're good, I'll reward you with what you truly desire." His murmur vibrates against your skin, and you can feel yourself starting to melt under his touch.

"Really?" you exhale, your voice barely above a whisper, feeling a rush of lust flood through you.

"Yes. Last time, you didn't obey, and I had to pull out. What a tragedy." The amused smirk in his voice is so clear, you don't have to see his face to imagine the crooked smile.

His fingers trace your entrance before he slides a digit in, your walls clamping down on it as if trying to suck it in. He is more impatient than before, no longer mercilessly drawing out every feeling he brings forth; instead, he already curls his index, looking for the sweet spot he so lovingly teased before. You cry out in pleasure, unable to resist the sensation he brings. His kisses move up your jawline as you moan into his ear. He adds another finger, and you want to clamp your thighs around his hand, but the belts keep your legs pulled apart. You feel yourself teetering on the edge of bliss, knowing you are completely at his mercy. His palm presses against your swollen clit while his fingers tease you relentlessly. The pleasure is blinding, the haze is starting to cloud your vision. You can't help but moan loudly, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation. Somewhere in that extasy, you cry out his name in desperation.

"That's my girl," he praises you as he works you through the pleasure. His touch is intoxicating, setting your whole body on fire. He doesn't even let you catch your breath, his lips locking with yours and his tongue swiping against yours in a passionate dance. You melt into the kiss, completely lost in the moment. He pulls away, only to replace his tongue in your mouth with his fingers. You taste the stringy slick he just pulled from your core, his wet palm brushing against your chin as you suck on his digits.

"Do you think you've been a good girl?" He says it with a smirk, his gaze piercing into your eyes. You nod as your tongue twirls around his fingers. You let out a moan as his other hand tightens in your hair.

"You think you deserve the reward, Poppet?" You nod, eager for what he is offering. He pulls his fingers from your lips, tracing them through his own mouth before leaning closer and kissing you again, the sweet taste of your desire lingering on his tongue. It doesn't last though, as he pushes himself up and you see him in full display, eager to blunge into you. His eyes are filled with hunger and passion, ready to consume you whole.

With the loud complaints of the bed beneath him, Wolfwood settles between your legs. His fingers trace along your skin, down to your knees, stroking every inch of your calves until he gets to your bound ankles. With nimble fingers, he undoes the buckles and sets your feet free. Reflexively tensing at the sudden release of pressure, your legs move closer together, capturing the man between them. He lets out a disapproving click of his tongue.

"I do one nice thing, and already you forget your manners," he says with a deep and dangerous voice as his hands grab on to your thighs and force your legs apart, exposing you completely. His hungry eyes move from your face to your core, devouring every inch of you with a sinister grin. He inches closer to you until his hips are pressed against yours. "I guess I have to teach you some respect again. You are hopeless."

You brace yourself for what is about to come next. His strong hands grab hold of your hips and lift your lower body up, your hands still pulled up above your head, no slack in the belts that bind your wrists. He grinds against the folds of your sex, making you gasp at his roughness against your aching bits. Your head rolls back in enjoyment of the moment. Even if you had something to say, you're unsure if you even know how to form words anymore.

"Look at me, Poppet. That's it, good girl. I want to see your face when I sink in and rearrange your insides." Your pleading eyes fix on him as he, true to his word, begins to penetrate you. He sinks his girth into you slowly and deliberately, causing you to gasp in pleasure as you adjust to him again. You are overwhelmed by the sensation of being completely filled, feeling a mixture of pain and pleasure as he goes deeper and deeper. It's like you weigh nothing as he holds up your lower half and starts to thrust into you. Your mind goes blank as you surrender completely to him. He burys himself entirely in you, groans escape his mouth as you clench yourself around him.

"Argh," he exhales hard, his head thrown back and his fingers digging into your hips. "You're so tight. This damn cunt of yours is going to ruin me," he mutters, his movements becoming more frantic and desperate. He pulls you higher, allowing himself to grind deep against your sweet spot. Your toes curl as the need in the pit of your belly coils tighter. You arch your back and moan his name, feeling your body respond eagerly to his sweet torture.

"Please… please don't stop," you beg, your voice barely a whisper. Your hips try pucking against his in time with his long strokes, but the strong arms keep you in place. You can feel the tension building inside you, ready to explode at any moment.

"You know I love it when you beg." The words esape him as a growl. "Tell me what you want, Poppet."

"Please, Nico, I want you to come in me. I need you to fill me up." You sob as you pull against the restraints of your arms. "I've been a good girl!"

"Yes. Beg me. Say it again."

"Please, Nico! I need you to fill me up with your love." Your pleading voice manages to form words between the gasping and moaning.

The force of him thundering his whole length into you makes you scream his name. He grinds into you, balls deep, hitting that spot inside you that always drives you crazy. The savage rhythm of his thrusts sends you over the edge, a violent release rippling through your body. You arch your back and cry out in ecstasy, completely lost in the moment. Your whole body convulses, squeezing tighter around him until he can't help but empty himself deep inside you with a primal growl of satisfaction. He thrusts into you a few more times before collapsing onto you. Your body finally relaxes, savoring the intense thrill that still lingers. His chest heaves against your body as you both catch your breath, the moment of passion leaving you completely spent and satisfied.

You lay there for a little while, both gathering up what's left of your blown minds. He finally looks up again, and you see the softness of his eyes before he pulls up more and kisses your lips. He is good at playing a villain, but he is anything but. His gentle mouth dances with yours as he releases your wrists, allowing you to entangle your fingers with his sweaty hair. The breeze carries the ragged net from around you and brushes it over your bodies.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Poppet," Wolfwood says quietly as he lifts his face. His eyes are filled with care, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. He pushes up to get off you, leaving you to spill over onto the sheets again as he leaves a yearning void in your core.

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[jaimeslanisters]

the pawn in every lover's game (part eleven)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King's Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 6.4k chapter warning: some discussion of sexual acts, a lowkey innocence kink notes: this fic also moonlights as a love letter to helaena

Viserys Targaryen is dying.

As you stand behind Helaena, watching as she kneels at her father’s bedside to speak to him, the Queen standing next to her, wringing her hands, you realize it’s nothing short of a miracle that the man is still alive. He looks skinny, far skinnier than you ever remember him looking like back when you were a child, and his skin has taken on a gray and pallid hue, more corpse than a living man. He’s rotting as he lays here, decaying before he even passes, and you note with a grim sense of satisfaction that it’s the bare minimum he deserves for what he’s done to his children.

You hope he’s in there still, behind the haze of milk of the poppy dulling his pain and senses. You hope he’s trapped within his own body with nothing but his regrets to keep him company.

The King is dying and you wish he were dying sooner.

The smell of the medicines that the maesters must be pouring into him to keep him alive is strong, unbearably so, and you can feel your nose twitch as you fight to keep your face neutral against the sting. Whenever you finally get to leave, you know that the scent will follow you, will linger on your clothes like a stain that’s too stubborn to be scrubbed off. At your side, Ser Harrold Westerling faces away from the King and his family, the ever-watchful sentinel, and you wonder how he does this day after day. Only a few moments have passed since you entered the royal bedchambers and already, you’re desperate to get out. Perhaps he’s grown used to the awful smell. Perhaps he’s as familiar with the stench of death as you are with the old dusty smell of the library or the sweet floral aroma of the gardens.

“My love,” Alicent murmurs, reaching out to brush a thin piece of hair away from the King’s face. He doesn’t react, doesn’t shift to seek out her touch, or flinch away. He’s a statue, perfectly still, and only the labored movement of his chest tells you that he’s alive. “Helaena is here. It’s her last day as a maiden and she wants your blessing for the wedding tomorrow.”

Helaena looks at her mother nervously before her gaze shifts to look at you. You smile the best that you can, nodding your head to encourage her, and, after a deep breath, she focuses her attention back on her father. Even from your spot, you can see how her hands tremble slightly as she rests them on the bed, her fingers curling into the thick covers to give herself something to cling to. “I… I wanted to thank you, Father, for allowing me this opportunity to bring our House honor through continuing Valyrian traditions. Aegon and I… Aegon and I will bring you pride, Father. We will. I promise.”

He doesn’t deserve it, you want to assure her. You’ve given him enough. You have nothing more to give to him. Not when he doesn’t deserve even your kind words.

After she finishes speaking, Helaena looks like she has more she wants to say but, after a long drawn-out moment where the only sounds are the rattling breath of a dying king, she shakes her head and rises to her feet. She stands, her silver hair a pale flame in the darkened chambers next to her mother’s blazing red hair, and looks over to the Queen, plainly waiting for instruction on what to do next.

Alicent sighs, her hand gently smoothing over the little hair that Viserys has left, and her eyes flicker down to her husband. From here, you can see the way her mouth turns downward, how her eyes stare down at the King with open pain and distress.

You curl your fists at your side, digging your nails deep into your palm, just so you can anchor yourself to something.

“Husband,” Alicent tries again, valiantly trying to steady her voice but, in the silence of the room, you can plainly hear the slightly higher pitch, the more pleading tone. She’s begging Viserys to care, to acknowledge Helaena, and you wonder if you’ve ever hated anyone more. Erren and Victor Florent had made the valiant attempt to supplant the king from that dubious honor but you know that, if the Stranger asked you if you would trade Victor’s death for that of Viserys Targaryen, you would take that deal in an instant. For Helaena, for Aemond, and for Daeron and Aegon too. “Your daughter is here. She’s here for her final maiden day, my love. Don’t you have anything you wish to say to her?”

There’s silence, dead awful silence, but then the king shifts in his bed, a low groan leaving his body, as he feebly pushes himself up slightly, craning his head to stare out at his wife and daughter at his side. You watch as Helaena’s face hesitantly brightens with something resembling hope, how Alicent twists her frown into a cautious and encouraging smile, and fear suddenly grips your heart as you realize all at once why the old king had moved.

No, you think wildly, wishing you could reach out to shield them and silence the King in one quick motion. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.

But Viserys didn’t do what you had wanted him to do in Driftmark and he certainly wouldn’t do it here.

“Rhaenyra?” Viserys asks, his voice weak and shaky as if each word is fighting and clawing its way out of his chest. “Rhaenyra is here?”

The king could only have done more damage if he had struck his wife and daughter across the face as he uttered that name. As it were, the Queen flinches back as she has been slapped, her brown eyes wide in distress and betrayal as she stares down at her husband, as she looks at the man she had vowed to love and protect and cherish ignore the daughter she had given him.

But Helaena… Helaena only closes her eyes, tilting her head down for a moment as if she’s trying to find balance again, squeezing her hands so tightly together that her already pale knuckles grow even whiter. When she looks up again, there is no heartache or disappointment written on her face. No pain. No anger.

There is only resignation.

You don’t even think - you step forward, suddenly desperate to reach out to Helaena, to brush your hand against her sleeve to assure her that you’re here and that you’re here for her, not for some rotting old king that would get what was coming for him in this life or the next. The moment your heel touches the ground, however, Viserys lets out another rattling breath and his pale eyes, dull and lifeless and so far removed from the bright eyes of all his children, swing to look at you.

He’s hopeful, that much is plain. He’s looking at you but he doesn’t see you and you can recognize the exact moment he realizes that you’re not Rhaenyra or anyone resembling anything close to Rhaenyra. Viserys looks at you for a moment longer, so plainly baffled by your presence, and indignation rises up in you.

You’ve been at Helaena’s side for nearly the majority of your life. You’ve been her loyal companion. You’ve been Aemond’s. For years, you’ve stood at their sides, as determined and loyal as any kingsguard.

And there’s no flicker of recognition in his eyes. Not when he looks at you. Not when he looks at Helaena.

For a moment, you let your mask slip. For half a second, you let all the rage and frustration and hatred slip onto your face as you glower at Viserys Targaryen, feeling as if you could reach out and choke him as easily as you could draw your next breath. For half a second, you imagine how lovely it would be to become a kingslayer, how easy. For half a second, you imagine how beautiful it would be for Viserys Targaryen to die knowing it’s because of his own actions, his own inactions.

It’s only for a moment but it’s a glorious moment.

Your mask comes back easily and you continue forward, moving to Helaena’s side, your face as pleasant as usual. The Queen is too busy staring down at the king, too busy facing yet another failure of her husband, but the princess is watching you. She had seen your control slip and, when you move to stand next to her, you look up to meet her eyes.

And she smiles.

Beautiful, sweet, and kind Helaena smiles and you know without a doubt, if she were to ask you to become a kingslayer for her, you would do it with nary a complaint. Quietly, you reach out to gently graze her sleeve, and, quick as can be, Helaena snatches your hand, squeezing it tight.

“Rhaenyra,” Viserys calls, feebly, and, reluctantly, you tear your eyes away from Helaena to stare down at him. He’s staring at Helaena, pale purple eyes pleading up at his daughter. “Rhaenyra, my girl, have you come to read to me? Have you and Alicent come to read?”

You glance over at Helaena but she’s already looking down at her father. Her face is clear, a perfectly blank expression, and your heart aches at the sight of it. “I’m not sure if I’ll have time to. We have to go to the royal sept, Father,” she says after a moment, clearly forcing the words out as calmly as she can.

“Can wait,” Viserys manages to croak out, his voice growing weaker and weaker as whatever little strength had possessed him to speak leaves his body. “Please. Alicent. Wait.” You look back at the King, expecting to see him gazing at his wife, but instead, his eyes are trained on you and you startle at the unexpected eye contact.

“Me?” You manage out after a moment, completely caught off guard. You’ve lived in the Red Keep since you were ten and not once has anyone ever compared you to the Queen. You were the walking copy of Lady Johanna Lannister and Johanna was as far from Alicent Hightower as was possible. Baffled, you snap your gaze towards the Queen, as if she could explain her husband’s delusion, only she’s already looking at you.

Her eyes aren’t anywhere near your face, however. She’s not looking over your dress in case you’ve accidentally worn something that resembled something she wore once in her childhood. No, she’s staring at your hand, wrapped around Helaena’s, and for a moment, you can’t imagine how that would cause more pain to spring up on her face than her husband’s mistake had.

It hits you all at once.

She used to be Princess Rhaenyra’s childhood companion, you realize, watching the Queen with pity blooming in your chest. His mistake has nothing to do with any resemblances he’s deluded himself into seeing. It’s about who I am to his daughter. Who she was to Rhaenyra.

You’ve never seen the Queen quite so off-kilter like this. Even on Driftmark, her heartbreak and anger had blazed more brightly than… this. That had been righteous fury, tempered by the shock and agony of failure. This was defeat and regret. She was deflated and lost, a little girl in all but appearance, so far removed from the Queen you’ve grown accustomed to after years and years spent in her company.

Even Helaena has noticed her mother’s distress, looking away from her father to stare at her mother. Nervous and hesitant, she reaches out with her free hand, gripping one of Alicent’s sleeves gently and tugging.

“Mother,” she whispers, sounding just like she had when you were both little girls, and just like that, the trance Alicent had entered is broken. The Queen reels back, brown eyes wide as she stares at you and Helaena, looking at your faces now. She’s breathing quickly as if she’s just risen up from the depths and is finally catching her first breath of fresh air after eons of holding her breath. “Mother, are you…”

Alicent shakes her head immediately, visibly rattled. “We should head to the sept, my sweet,” she quickly says, plastering a plainly fake smile on her face. “There are quite a few ceremonies you girls will need to perform today and I’m sure the septas would appreciate all the extra time you can afford to give them.”

The pair of you stare back at her, stunned by her fast turnaround before you find your voice. “Of course, Your Grace,” you say, bowing your head slightly.

After a moment, Helaena echoes your words and, hurriedly, Alicent rushes the pair of you out, the three of you quietly whispering your thanks to Ser Harrold as you pass.

None of you bow to Viserys when you leave.

——————————–

You’ve never been too fond of the royal sept. There’s nothing wrong with it in particular - it is a beautiful sept, one fit for the seat of the royal family, but whenever you were in it, you only ever felt longing for Casterly Rock. At your ancestral home, your mother, while not pious by any stretch of the imagination, would always make sure that you and your sisters would keep up appearances by performing the appropriate amount of prayers and songs in front of the statues of the Seven. It didn’t happen too often - usually only two or three times in a sennight - but it was a frequent enough occasion that the incense the septas burned immediately launch you back to Casterly Rock’s sept.

To be sure, the royal sept was larger and grander with beautiful stained windows filling the main statuary room with copious amounts of light. The sept at Casterly Rock was practically claustrophobic by comparison. Set deep within the Rock itself, it was windowless with only candles providing light but it had never seemed dark, not even when the candles were dwindling to nubs. In true Lannister fashion, nearly everything in the sept was golden - from the floors you and your sisters kneeled on to pray to the statues of the Seven you had prayed to. With no windows and only small vents carved into the walls for air circulation, the smell of incense was near unbearable. As a little girl, it had been the least favorite of your chores by far and you had often complained to Cerelle and Tyshara under your breath about how badly your eyes and nose ached after even a few seconds inside the sept, giggling whenever your mother or your septa had scolded the three of you for not focusing on prayer.

The air in the royal sept, in comparison, was fresh - as fresh as King’s Landing air could get - and the incense smell was low, far more manageable than it was at Casterly Rock. When the septa leads you and Helaena to stand before the statue of the Maiden, you find you almost miss the ache. The ache meant you were at Casterly Rock. It meant you had your sisters and your mother near.

One has left and another will leave the Rock soon enough you think to yourself, moving through the mechanics of kneeling before the statue on instinct. Soon, all of us will leave the Rock and only little Loren will remain.

It’s a discomforting thought to have to picture the Rock without Cerelle managing the household, without Tyshara entertaining Jeyne and Joy with you, and you quickly banish it from your mind, forcing yourself to refocus on what the septa was explaining to you.

Almost predictably, however, the septa leaves as soon as you decide to actually listen to her and, as you watch her leave with a twinge of regret, Helaena leans in close to your ear, ignoring the way you jump slightly when you notice how close she is. “Did you catch anything she said?”

You cough to cover up your laugh and someone in the spacious chamber shushes you. Helaena almost immediately bursts into giggles, throwing her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to muffle it, and you grin, biting your cheek so you don’t start laughing again.

“Missed every single thing,” you promptly confess when she finally slows her giggles, gently knocking her with your shoulder to tease her when that statement makes her dissolve into another laughing fit.

Eventually, she calms, shaking her head while she looks around the sept curiously. There are only a few other septas, most of them tending to the Father and Mother statues as they gently clean them with rags. A lone septon stands in front of the Crone, head bowed as he swings a thurible gently in front of him, the smoke lazily making its way up to the statue of the wizened old lady.

“Did she say when she was supposed to return for us?” You ask, watching the septon finish his prayer and slowly move around the circle of the Seven to the statue of the Smith, swinging the thurible as he goes.

Helaena shakes her head. “I think soon. We still have to bathe, don’t we?”

You tilt your head in thought, trying to recall everything your childhood septas had explained to you about your future wedding days. A bride’s last day as a maiden was spent in prayer and recitation, usually with her chosen maiden companion at her side, and, if your vague recollections of your lessons were to be trusted, at some point, the two of you would be sent to a large bathing room where septas would wash the pair of you while reciting prayers for fertility and health. From there, it would be more prayer until you finally got to leave the sept to attend a dinner with Helaena’s family.

Attend a dinner. Not eat a dinner. Like for Maiden’s Day, the pair of you would have to fast until the next morning, and sit a dinner, surrounded by everyone eating around you, to symbolize the strength and willpower the maidens must have in order to remain pure until their wedding days.

Typically, the dinner that you wouldn’t eat was held with the bride’s family with the groom eating someplace else with his own family except you weren’t entirely sure what the protocol would be seeing as the groom was the bride’s family here. Would Aegon eat with you two? Would the family be split down the middle with some dining with him and the rest with Helaena?

You sigh, deciding that it didn’t matter now. “Yes. Your mother should be joining us after the bath, I believe, but you know… It doesn’t seem very fair that we have to spend all day in the sept while the princes get to watch the archery event. They still have roles to play tomorrow.”

Helaena shrugs helplessly, reaching towards the basket of flowers placed at the Maiden’s feet and running her fingers absentmindedly through the loose petals. “Aemond is the Warrior. It makes sense for him to be there at the tourney, I suppose.”

You resist the urge to snort. “And Daeron is meant to be the Smith, isn’t he? I don’t suppose he’ll be spending the day in the forge or will he?”

“Being the Maiden isn’t all bad,” Helaena replies, giving you a small smile. “No one can bother us right now, at least.”

Something in you softens at her expression and you smile back easily, nodding. “Of course, Helaena. I’m not complaining about serving as your Maiden. I’m more questioning what the men will be doing in preparation.”

It had never occurred to you that there was a disparity between the work that the different wedding attendants would need to do in order to properly fulfill their duties. Typically, weddings done in the light of the seven always had six attendants to serve them: the Father, the Mother, the Maiden, the Warrior, the Smith, and the Crone. The Stranger was never physically represented - not when having their presence would only invite death onto the newlyweds. The six attendants were typically divided neatly in the middle with the bride’s and groom’s party each providing three of them but, when the party was essentially one, there was no such division aside from preference. Otto Hightower was serving as the Father seeing as Viserys Targaryen could not be bothered. Alicent was the Mother, you were the Maiden, Aemond was the Warrior, Daeron the Smith, and the Crone was…

“Who’s the Crone?” You ask without thinking, your voice accidentally an octave too loud, and, immediately, you are shushed by several people.

Helaena grins at your affronted look. “Princess Rhaenys.”

You choke, earning yourself another reprimand that you promptly ignore, before you lean in, desperate for more information. “Princess Rhaenys? How? Why?”

She shrugs in response. “Grandfather has been talking with her recently. She’s the oldest, highest-ranking woman in our House, after all.”

“He’s actually speaking to her?” You ask. “Or she’s actually speaking to him?”

“Aemond told him to, apparently. He said Grandfather should speak to Princess Rhaenys about tax reforms, I think, and apparently, when he did, he ended up asking her to serve as the Crone and she agreed.”

You lean back, flatly stunned, and you rest your hands on your knees as you think. It had only been a few days since you had told Aemond he should tell the Lord Hand to consult with Rhaenys. While the days since had felt impossibly long, you knew that wasn’t the truth. In all honesty, you had expected Aemond to act on your advice once the wedding had passed, during those few days when noblemen slowly prepared to return to their holdfasts and castles. You had never expected him to enact your suggestions so fast and you fight back a smile.

Aemond’s speed aside, this was massive. Rhaenys serving as an attendant at Aegon and Helaena’s wedding was by no means a sign that she was fostering an alliance with that branch of the Targaryen family but it was an opening.

An opening you intend to use.

“Will she be at the dinner tonight? Or will she be preparing with us later?” You ask, fighting to suppress the eagerness in your voice.

You fail if Helaena’s bemused smile is anything to go off of. “I think she will be.”

You grin, laughing out loud in glee, and not even caring when a chorus of shushes responds.

——————————–

You wish the septas had bothered to heat up the water. The bath hadn’t been bad - at least, not at first. It had been odd, to say the least, to have five septas circling the communal bath while singing hymns you only vaguely recognize while two washed you and Helaena. No one has bathed you since you were a little girl and to suddenly have an audience was disconcerting, to say the least. You had quickly gotten over their presence, however, instead focusing on holding yourself back from shivering relentlessly. It was cold and, as the prayers had dragged on, it had only grown colder. The little warmth the bath had had in the beginning had died quickly and you were left fighting the urge to curse and dive for a towel to try to use to warm you up.

Helaena, thankfully, had handled it much better than you had. She had only flinched at the beginning when the septa had reached for her but eventually, she had grown accustomed to the woman’s touch and had relaxed, looking as if she was handling the cold of the water a great deal better than you.

The blood of the dragon runs hot indeed.

Mercifully, the bath ends and, after dressing the pair of you in simple gowns and drying your hair, the septas guide you to a new statuary area, away from the large room you had been in earlier. It’s spacious enough if only because it’s nearly empty and, when you spot the women waiting for you, you fight down a smile.

Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenys could not look more uncomfortable with one another if they tried. It’s clear that they’ve just arrived for surely they would be more at ease with one another if they had had more time to try and start a conversation. As it were, when the septas lead you and Helaena in, both women show flickers of relief on their faces, one more muted than the other.

When the septas instruct the four of you, you actually listen, unwilling to be caught off guard in front of people who wouldn’t take as kindly to it as Helaena had. Thankfully, the ceremony they leave you all to do is a relatively simple one although a rather tedious one. It’s an affirmation of the seven blessings - the four of you will walk around the sept seven times, stopping at each statue as you go to ask for their blessing for the wedding tomorrow.

Simple. Yet so unbearably tedious.

Thankfully, Alicent, by far the most pious of the four of you, leads the way, Helaena right by her side. This leaves you in the back, walking by Princess Rhaenys. For the first two laps, you’re all relatively quiet, only speaking when you recite the prayers for each of the Seven, but Helaena breaks the silence first, asking her mother how the preparations are going for tomorrow.

When Alicent launches into a long-winded complaint that she’s clearly been holding back all day, you glance over at the Lady of Driftmark, smiling hesitantly when her eyes, the typical dark blue of House Baratheon rather than the usual violet of House Targaryen, meet yours.

“Princess Rhaenys,” you say after a moment, bowing your head slightly in lieu of a curtsey. Rhaenys reciprocates in kind, eyes sharp as she watches you. “Do you have much experience as an attendant?”

Rhaenys smiles, clearly on guard but plainly judging you to be relatively harmless. “A few times here and there. I’ve played the Maiden as a young girl but I’ve been the Crone a few times now in my age.”

You tactfully ignore the fact she’s never gotten the chance to be the Mother. Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding was notoriously rushed and some of the smallfolk whispered that it had been such a cursed union because they had not been given the time to properly ask for the seven blessings. Daemon and Laena’s wedding was similarly speedy if the gossip was to be believed. Daemon had killed Laena’s betrothed and taken her to wife, stealing her away to Essos before anyone could intervene. No seven blessings there either.

“This is my first time as an attendant,” you reply, laughing slightly at yourself. “I’ve attended a few weddings here and there but this is the first time anyone’s ever asked me to participate.”

Conversation pauses as the four of you stop in front of the Maiden, speaking the prayers together, only to resume as you continue on your walk.

Rhaenys raises an eyebrow while looking at you. “You have two older sisters, do you not? I imagine you’ll be able to serve as the Maiden for at least one of them.”

You laugh. “I hope to get such a blessing soon enough. I’m happy enough to serve Helaena, though. She’s a sister to me in all but name at this point.”

“From what I hear, she might be a sister by name soon as well,” she says, smiling slightly when you visibly grow flustered. “The Targaryens may welcome a new daughter sooner rather than later.”

“I could only be so lucky, my princess. To be able to join the house of the dragon would be a blessing beyond words,” you respond after a moment, making sure to soften your tone to sound more shy and unsure of yourself. In front of the two of you, Helaena slightly falters in her footsteps and you feel a flash of nerves, suddenly fearful of her sprouting her prophecies in front of Rhaenys. Instead of that, however, she shoots you an amused look over her shoulder, seemingly having heard the shy maiden you’re presenting yourself as.

Rhaenys, however, doesn’t notice, simply eying you with quiet amusement. Better she think I’m a harmless lovestruck maid than anything else.

After the next statue, the Crone ironically enough, you clear your throat and look back over at the Princess. “I’ve been blessed with being able to speak to Lady Baela. She’s a very clever lady - a testament, I’m sure, to your care.”

Her smile comes even easier now and, in her dark eyes, you can see undisguised pride for her granddaughter. “Baela is a smart girl. Headstrong. She’s like her mother in that regard.”

“Lady Baela has told me of her lady mother - of her kindness and care for her daughters.” You say, softly, and Rhaenys tenses, looking you over with doubt rising in her eyes. You’ve entered dangerous territory with her. “The Stranger is cruel, to take someone so notable so young. I’m glad you’ve stepped in with Lady Baela’s care to honor your daughter. She, and Lady Rhaena, are Lady Laena’s legacy and they are safest in your hands.”

Rhaenys watches you for a beat longer, searching and searching in your face for a sign that you’re being duplicitous. She won’t find it since you’re not - you’re honest. Baela is better off with Princess Rhaenys than with a father who disrespects her mother. “Your words are kind, my lady,” she finally says, tearing her eyes away from yours to stare up at the statue of the Stranger. From here on the ground, the sunlight casts shadows on the stone, concealing completely the Stranger’s face hidden under their cloak. “I live to honor my children. That is my only purpose.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. You’ve already planted the seeds.

——————————–

After the week of feasts you’ve been attending night after night, the dining room in Maegor’s Holdfast seems almost positively quaint in comparison. It’d be refreshing and relaxing.

If you could eat.

You and Helaena are the first ones in the dining room and you pointedly keep your eyes off the spread of food, wishing you could plug your nose. You’ve fasted before for different religious holidays but the cooks are seemingly determined to make this exercise in restraint that much harder on you by making your favorites. From freshly baked lemon cakes to decadent venison pies, it all smells absolutely divine and you wish, not for the first time since you’ve sat down, that you could sneak a bite.

Unfortunately, the Queen and Lord Otto are already here, the two of them speaking to Rhaenys about the ceremony tomorrow, and you know with your miserable luck that the moment you reach out to steal even just a candied lemon slice, they’ll look your way and see you breaking your fast. You fear losing their respect more than satisfying your hunger and so you keep your hands firmly in your lap, swearing to yourself that tomorrow you’ll find a way to convince someone to fetch lemon cakes if the bakers don’t make them for tomorrow’s even more lavish feast.

You open your mouth to say something to Helaena when the doors open and Aegon all but trips in. Close behind him, Daeron is grabbing him by the back of the tunic to haul him up while Aemond watches them with such disdain that you know, without a doubt, if his younger brother hadn’t been there, he would have left Aegon to fall on the ground.

“Are we late?” Aegon asks when he rights himself, grinning broadly, and you freely roll your eyes, knowing that none of the princes would care about your act of plain disrespect. Aemond notices and he smirks at you, shaking his head slightly in mirth.

“Of course not,” Alicent says, her tone clearly saying the opposite, and Aegon laughs in lieu of responding. You wince. He’s drunk - which is normal for him - but you haven’t seen him this drunk in years, not since he was a boy and testing his limits. He’s learned to at least play the part of sober but he must have drunk Sunfyre’s weight in alcohol for him to be this drunk. He’s stumbling and only Daeron at his side is keeping him standing. Carefully, the youngest prince guides his brother to a seat at the right end of the table, all but dumping him into it, before he slides into the seat next to him, smiling brightly at the rest of the table as if he hadn’t physically dragged Aegon here. Aemond sits next to you, sandwiching you between him and Helaena, sitting across from his older brother so he can suitably glare at him.

Otto clears his throat once the men settle. “Nevertheless, the princes are here now. We should begin.”

For a moment, you fear he’s going to give a speech and you don’t know if you can stand to sit here amongst your favorite foods for longer than absolutely necessary. When he doesn’t, you almost sigh in relief except the Queen announces that they should all pray together before the meal in order to ask the gods one final time to lend their blessings for tomorrow.

Of course, you think to yourself even as you bow your head and close your eyes, clasping your hands in front of you. This marriage will need all the blessings the gods see fit to give it to be successful.

Thankfully, the prayer goes fast and, almost on instinct, you reach for food only to have to bring yourself to an abrupt stop. You stare pitifully at the tray stacked high with lemon cakes, wishing desperately that you could eat one.

“You’ve fasted before, my lady. I’m surprised you’re taking it so hard this time.” Aemond says after a moment and you pitifully drag your stare away from the lemon cakes to frown at him. He hasn’t reached for any food for his place, preferring to watch you with amusement at your disgruntled expression, and that only makes you frown even more. Around the pair of you, the conversation has started with Lord Otto speaking with Helaena and Rhaenys as Alicent and Daeron make a valiant attempt at disguising their panic at Aegon’s quickly deteriorating state.

“I have,” you reply in a prim voice, tapping your fingers against the empty table setting in front of you. “But this time it’s different. For Maiden’s Day, I’m free to lock myself up in my quarters and distract myself. Here, the temptation is the point. I need to be tempted to prove that I’m able to abstain.”

Aemond’s eyes flash with something that leaves too fast for you to identify. He looks at you for a moment, scanning and analyzing, before he looks over his shoulder to check on his mother sitting by his side. The Queen is leaning towards Aegon, whispering fiercely in low tones, and, judging from the mulish look on the prince’s face, she will be distracted the entire dinner by his shenanigans. He turns back to you and moves closer.

Without thinking, you also move closer, slowly and imperceptibly so as to not call attention, and your sleeve brushes his. Your heart begins to pound loud in your chest.

“Are you tempted often, my lady?” He asks, voice low and steady, and you blink owlishly up at him.

“I don’t eat lemon cakes every day if that’s what you’re asking,” you respond after a moment, tilting your head as you meet his gaze. You know what he’s asking - you know you’re playing the fool for him right now - but you don’t know how to articulate the answer that he’s seeking.

I’m tempted every day but I don’t know what to do.

He smiles but there’s something mean about it. His arm presses into yours. “But you do indulge.”

Vaguely, you’re aware of Helaena laughing at something Rhaenys says but you can’t register any of it, not with the blood rushing in your ears. You lick your lips anxiously and Aemond’s eyes seize on the motion, watching your mouth hungrily. Your heart stutters. “I… I don’t know how.” You confess, feeling yourself burn with shame and something else. “I’ve never… Never.”

I’m playing the Maiden you think to yourself as you watch Aemond’s smirk slowly grow on his face, when that hunger from after the melee grows in his eyes. Surely, this is breaking some rule, going against the blessings we’ve spent all day asking for.

But to be fair to yourself… You don’t think this union could be any more cursed, wayward Maidens and tempting Warriors aside. Perhaps the gods would take pity on you. Maybe the Maiden had never been tempted by a man like Aemond Targaryen.

“But I want to,” you say, the words rushing themselves out of his mouth before you can reconsider them. “Gods, I want to.”

Temptation is the point, you reason with yourself, ignoring how the heat from your and his body makes your head go hazy. There is nothing to abstain from if there is nothing to tempt.

Aemond tilts his head, looking like a cat that’s cornered the mouse, playing with it, knowing he’s won. Part of you rebels against it, wants to remind him that you’re no meek maiden, but a larger part of you delights in letting go of your own restraint and control, if only for a few stolen moments at dinner. “Would you like some advice?”

Something in you thrums at his voice. Mouth dry, you nod.

His eye looks around him for a moment and, judging it to be safe, he leans in, his lips touching your ear as he does. Your hands fist up your dress in your lap, pulling it tight. “I would, my love, but I’m afraid we’re unbound as of right now. My mother might be remarkably uninterested in keeping my head on my shoulders now that the tourney is done.”

He pulls away but you reach out, capturing him by the arm to hold him still. You look at him, mindful to keep your careful distance but still close enough that you feel that rush of excitement when he looks at you. “You said that there’s always been an understanding,” you remind him, squeezing him slightly. “Ever since I came.”

Only peripheral awareness of your surroundings keeps you from telling him that your father wouldn’t mind, not really, if he took his liberties. He would only mind if the perception of you from the court was that he had not, that you were the perfect Maiden that you were meant to be.

From the look in Aemond’s eye, you wonder if he already knows.

He smiles, gentler than he has during this entire dinner, and, for half a second, you feel robbed - of what you’re not sure and that’s the worst part that makes you want to scream. As quickly as the disappointment arises, however, he dashes it when, under his breath, low enough so no one else can hear, he says, “There’s a bud, my lady, in the apex of your thighs. When you’re alone, touch it. Or perhaps, you’ll be strong enough to abstain.”

Your legs snap together, rubbing, and you heave a sigh, nodding shakily, as he pulls away completely. His smile grows even softer as he takes in your state of disorientation.

“Are you tempted?” He asks, nodding his head towards the lemon cakes, as if he’s asking you a perfectly innocent question about your fast. Next to him, finally noticing something aside from Aegon fighting to not vomit, Alicent frowns at him.

“Aemond,” she scolds, looking as if all her patience has left her. “Don’t tease her - she’s performing a great duty for Aegon and Helaena.”

Aemond nods solemnly. “Of course, Mother,” he replies, as innocent as a Targaryen prince could ever be. “I was simply admiring her strength and asking if she was alright.”

You briefly entertain exposing his misbehavior to the Queen, if only to watch him squirm as he had you, but instead, you sigh. “I am fine. Thank you for asking, my prince.”

Aemond bows his head towards you, as if acknowledging your sacrifice for his family, and Alicent turns back to her oldest son, her attention plainly leaving the two of you. He looks at you for a moment longer.

Before he reaches out to steal a candied lemon slice off a lemon cake, popping it in his mouth, and licking the sugar off his fingers.

You wonder if you’re strong enough to flip the table.

[mermaidgirl30]

Love Amidst The Blue Sneak Peek

A/N: I will most likely drop the first chapter this weekend, so here is a little sneak peek of my sailor/treasure hunter Joel and mermaid au. Let me know if you’d like to be tagged 💙

Joel clings to the side of the boat as he digs his nails into the warm, polished wood. He turns his head to watch his crew stay busy on the deck as they bustle around and drag their worn out shoes against the floorboards. He sighs and takes another look at his intricate map, tracing his finger over every crevice of the parchment until he gets frustrated and throws his head up to look out on the bright horizon.

As soon as he looks up, he stops cold as he spots the gleam of a sparkling tail in the near distance. It’s not just a tail, there’s a girl leaning up against a rock that’s staring right back at him. He rubs his eyes to make sure it’s not the sun playing tricks on his mind, but she still appears there in the same spot just staring blankly at him. He sees a young woman who’s beautiful, dreamlike, something he only thought was a fantasy. He sees you, a mermaid…

Mermaids aren’t real, mermaids can’t be real. But how does he explain what he clearly sees now? You are very much real.

His ears ring with white noise, the sounds of his crew scrubbing along the deck nearly nonexistent now. It’s just you and him, staring at each other as if you’re the only two people out on the calm waters. It’s just the gentle breeze kissing his tanned skin and the distant noise of waves lapping against the rock that you so subtly lean against, eyes locking with each other as if the world crashes on its side to bring the two of you together.

He grabs his golden telescope, looking through the lense as you come into view just inches from his vision. The sight of you nearly knocks the breath out of him, his eyes widen as he takes in the beauty that sits before him. He thinks you’re the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on, thinks you’re absolutely divine, a treasure that should be well cared for.

His eyes trail down your lush curves, taking in the dusty coral colored seashells that cover your breasts, scanning every inch of your shimmering tail that’s soft pink as it flicks back and forth against the water. It’s almost sparkling like diamonds, maybe even soft to the touch. He wonders what you feel like, what you sound like. He bets your voice is like an angel’s, captivating and melodic like nothing he’s ever heard on earth. He wonders what your hands feel like, how they’d feel entwined in his own.

You should swim away, dive back underneath the blue water, but you can’t move. You can’t look away from the handsome stranger. You want to know his name, want to ask him all about what land life is like, want to know if his voice is as soft as his tousled curls look like, want to see him again and again…

“Cap’n, whatcha lookin’ at?” Jasper asks as he comes up to Joel and nearly sends him over the edge of the boat. Joel drops the telescope from his unsteady hand, and it lands in a heap on the wooden deck. He scrambles to pick it up, and when he stands up and looks back out at the rock he sees that you’re gone.

He huffs out a sigh and shakes his head slowly. “It was nothing, Jas. Just thought I saw something. Was only a dolphin, nothing else,” he says with a hint of sadness on his tongue, wishing you were still on the rock so he could look into your entrancing eyes.

“Too bad it wasn’t a mermaid. Could’ve made you a true believer,” Jasper laughs as he hits Joel on the back of the shoulder with more force than he meant to.

“Yeah, too bad…” Joel says quietly as he stares at the vacant rock, doing nothing for his peace of mind as he wishes you were still there.

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

if touch prompts are open: spooning with whichever tma ship you're feeling at the moment please?

This got a little angsty

~*~

"I don't like this place."

Michael's voice was as unexpected as his arms sliding around Gerry's middle, and his tall frame pressing against his back. Gerry screwed his eyes closed, a tiny piece of him regretting getting involved with one of the best Assistants the Magnus Institute had ever had. How else could Michael have found him?

"Why are you here?" he asked dully.

"Because you're here," Michael answered, tucking his face into Gerry's dark hair. "Where else would I be?" One of his hands found Gerry's, fingers squeezing his. "Why are you here?"

"This is where I go when I feel like shit," Gerry admitted, feeling like his chest was cracking open with each word. "I spent so much of my life feeling like shit in this place, so..." he trailed off, hoping Michael could understand. Misery felt more familiar in his childhood bed.

Michael hummed, his legs sliding up on the dusty bedcovers and pushing Gerry's up with them. Usually it was Gerry clinging to his back, as Michael slept deeply in an impossibly tight curl. But now it was Michael closing in around him, surrounding him completely in his embrace, and the dark horrible thoughts in Gerry's head were almost drowned out by the feeling. "Do you know why you're feeling that way?"

"Because everything in my life besides you is pretty much awful." Gerry sucked in a deep breath, his chest feeling heavy and tight. "I never know what I'm doing, or if I'm missing something I'm supposed to be doing, and I have no idea how to do what I am supposed to do. I have so many questions but I don't know who to ask."

He knew...these were the things his parents were supposed to teach him. Like how to do taxes, and take care of himself, and how to be a proper person instead of a broken brittle shell. Someone who would be a worthy partner for the incredibly understanding man who was still pressed to his back and holding him tight. There was so much, too much, and he had no one to help him, and even if he did he couldn't be a burden on them anyway.

Especially not Michael.

Michael sighed. "I understand that," he agreed. "It can all be very...overwhelming." The hand pressed to his middle stroked a calm slow pattern, up and down. It was probably the best hug of Gerry's life, if only he were in the mood to appreciate it.

Gerry could have hardly imagined, in all those awful years of trying to sleep under his mother's roof, that there could ever be a boy in his bed with him, much less one like Michael. He could never have imagined anyone willingly following him into his personal hell of Pinhole Books and not immediately being scared off. It felt like such an indulgent fantasy, but it was real.

He could almost sense Michael studying his room, taking in the posters and art on the walls. The mural Gerry had added to on his worst days, when he felt similar to how he currently was, and had no other outlet. It practically dripped with his pain.

"I know you said this is where you go when you...feel bad, but can we go back to mine? Please?" Michael accompanied his request with a deep squeeze. "I can take care of you there. You might not be so miserable there too."

Gerry almost refused on instinct. He was no good company when he felt this way. And yet, if the situation was reversed, he knew he'd bend over backwards to make Michael feel better. He'd light himself on fire for Michael if he needed brightness in his life. And it seemed that somehow, impossibly, Michael felt the same way, for him. That was one of those things that...couples did. Support each other. Work things through. Stick around. Gerry knew all of that, but applying it to himself was...difficult.

"Yes," he quietly agreed, and felt Michael sigh with relief. Michael sat up and pulled him up with him, his gentle hand cupping Gerry's chin to tilt his head back so they were eye to eye. Michael looked so worried, but still so lovely as he kissed Gerry's temple.

"It's going to be okay," Michael promised, his breath brushing over Gerry's skin. "We'll get through this. I'll help you however I can. Just..." he gave Gerry another comforting squeeze around the middle. "Come home with me now. Please."

God.

"Okay," Gerry agreed weakly, his chest feeling thick with complicated emotions. Michael's words didn't solve anything, not really, but they did make him feel a little lighter, just a bit. Enough to make him believe everything would be okay.

[lovehugsandcandy]

tongue of silver, taste of blood

Pairing: Aerin x f!MC, Blades of Light and Shadow

Ratings: M (blood, illness, pain, swearing)

Word Count: ~11,000

A/N: This is set after Book 2, with the assumption that Nifara will be the villain? Idk. Thank you to @choicesficwriterscreations for all the work you do on the archive!

Summary: In which Aerin meets the vhampyrs. In which the vhampyrs learn the tale of the mercenaries of Lord Kelvin Gillbottle. And in which that tale gets the ending it deserves.

He feels it, the telltale prickling in his head, a subtle but undeniably present static behind his forehead. 

There’s someone else in his mind.

Aerin clears his throat and speaks aloud, alone in the empty cell. “I know you’re there.”

Hello, Little Human. Apparently, you know my tricks. She’s probing, delving into his psyche, but he bats down everything rising to the surface as he desperately searches for a thought to cling to, something innocuous, unrevealing, something that won’t put his entire mission in danger.

“I will tell you…” He cuts off to cough. “I will tell you the story of Lord Kelvin Gill-“

Little Human, I don’t want stories. The voice hisses, but Aerin is certain; he knows, if he can keep his mind focused on nonsense, there will be nothing of value for the voice to discover.

“Well, it’s not about Lord Gillbottle, per se, but more about his mercenaries.”

And so he starts the story, a fanciful tale of roving adventurers becoming heroes, and it continues until the static leaves his mind and, exhausted, he slides into unconsciousness.

~~~~~

“What do you mean the vhampyrs can read minds?”

Aerin jerks awake. It’s cold wherever he is; he’s since lost track of where the vhampyrs led him, somewhere through a maze of never-ending stone stairs and dusty crypts, and even rubbing his hands over his arms doesn’t quell the chill. There’s one blanket, threadbare, draped over his legs, but he refuses to clamber into the bed he was given so when he lies on the floor, the cold of the stone seeps unyielding into his bones. 

Searching through the recess of his brain, thankfully, it’s quiet - his thoughts are clear. No static. During the day, the vhampyrs sleep, so he’s alone in his mind; besides, he knows that voice that just echoed in his head. 

It wasn’t the vhampyr.

It was a memory. Mal, leaning over a tattered map, in the Palace Archive.

More of the memory returns to him, unbidden.

“What do you mean the vhampyrs can read minds?”

“Not all, but some. The powerful ones. They can delve into your head,” Kade says, a stack of tomes towered beside him to match the two spread open before him, his fingers flipping carefully through weathered pages. It appears that he has pulled every single book he could find on the creatures from the entire Palace Archives; Aerin is almost impressed.

“Can you stop it somehow?” Raine asks, already in planning mode.

“No,” Tyril says, shaking his head. “Not to that I know of. An Elven lord once tried to create a charm of sorts, but it failed miserably. And then they drained his blood and put his head on a stake.”

“Vile creatures.” Imtura crosses her hands over her chest as she speaks. “Are you sure we need to meet with them?”

Rain frowns. “Yes. We need them as allies.”

“But we managed before, with allies that can’t read our minds.” Imtura says.

“The stakes are even higher now.” At least Raine looks apologetic as she continues. “We need anyone we can find.”

Aerin frowns before offering a likely unwelcome interjection. “And, there is something you can do. You can’t stop them from trying to get their way into your head, but you can stop them from finding anything.”

“What do you mean, princeling?” Tyril asks.

Aerin sighs, glancing away. “When someone else is in your mind, you can sense it, feel it. It’s a bit like static in your brain. So, when you sense it starting, you need to think of something else, something you don’t want them to know. Or they will learn everything.”

“Of course you know what it’s like to have voices in your head,” Mal sneers, and Aerin glares back. 

“Well, they couldn’t read your mind, as there’s nothing of value there.”

“Enough.” Raine speaks, cutting off the brewing brawl. “It’s not much, but it is something. Time is of the essence here; we will need to split up.” Aerin waits and doesn’t breathe while she surveys the group. “Valax and I will work on that unstable rift. Tyril, could you and Mal travel to the Cliffs of Colaris? Imtura, you will go to Necropolis and meet with the vhampyrs. Nia will accompany you. And…” Aerin shifts his feet as her eyes meet his. “Aerin will go, too.”

Imtura grimaces, swatting his arm; Aerin tries not to wince at the sharp ache. “Looks like it’s you, me, and Nia, princeling.”

At least Raine looks apologetic and hangs back, waiting until the others have left to catch his arm. “Are you ok with this? Going into the vhampyrs’ lair?”

“Where no one has come back from alive?”

“Those are just stories.” 

Aerin grimaces and says, “Even the stories are unsettling.”

“They are sentient; I am sure we can reason with them.”

“Are you sure I can’t accompany you instead?”

She sighs. “Kade filled me in on everything he knew about the vhampyrs. Their ways of living, their power structure. I need a diplomat, someone who can drive agreement with them.”

“Imtura can’t do that?”

Raine laughs softly, and it’s so much like music that he’s compelled to smile back. “She can get you physically out of there if need be, and Nia will protect you all with her Light. But I need you to get through to the vhampyrs. Just like you struck an accord with Baroness Isador, I need someone clever to do the same with the immortal.”

He rubs the back of his neck; while he would rather travel with Raine, he can’t doubt the logic. He does have half a mind to doubt the faith she shows in him, but decides to only reply with “I’ll try.”

“I know.” She glances around, making sure that their companions have departed before stepping forward, catching his cheek in her palm. “You’ll come back to me, right?”

“Of course.” He smirks; judging by her raised eyebrow, she’s thinking of all the times he left. And yet, each time, he returned. “Raine. I will always come back to you; I told you, until you order me away, I will be here.” He tangles their fingers together.

“I know. But I am sorry to make you do this.”

“It’s alright.” She has no idea what he would do for her and, before he can profess that lengthy list, she leans forward to press her lips to his. 

Aerin’s eyes fly open. They cannot have this part of his memory; he would die before he lets any of the bloodsuckers take it from him. This one is his - and Raine’s - theirs alone.

These memories come like a dream, but he’s unsure whether he’s still sleeping. All he knows is that it’s night.

At least he thinks it is. With no windows, the passage of time has become choppy, incoherent. The servants, clad in dark shrouds, deliver food twice a day; assuming it was dusk and dawn, it’s been two days. 

Four meals.

He eats little.

Aerin clambers from the floor, just as the familiar static returns. 

Hello, Little Human. The voice speaks, disembodied. He’s alone in the cell, the words only in his mind and, if he weren’t familiar with whispers calling out to him, he’s sure it would be thoroughly disorienting.

“Hello.”

I would like to ask you something. Lady Lilith is still surface level, not digging yet, so he entertains the query.

“What?”

What does the Commander of the Armies of Light want with creatures of darkness?

“You live in this realm, so you have an interest in its continuation, do you not?”

The issues of the human world do not concern us anymore.

“This is bigger than just one race, truly.” The static grows louder and he winces; she’s now deeper, looking for the truth in his words. He begins the story anew. “So Lord Gillbottle had asked the mercenaries to travel through the deep, dark forest.”

This again?

“Yes, it’s called the Deadwood, where I come from. You’d fit right in.”

Very funny, Little Human.

“So Lord Gillbottle sends them to the Deadwood, but he never expected that they would run into the drakna.”

What are drakna?

“Giant monsters. Horrid things. My brother - I mean - anyway. The monsters were chasing a pair of princes.”

Human princes?

“Yes, human princes traveling the kingdom from Whitetower.”

Why were there princes in the Deadwood?

“They were traveling. Do you want to hear the story or not? The mercenaries bravely fought off the drakna and saved the princes.”

Why?

At this, he loses focus. “What do you mean, why?”

Why did they save the princes?

Dumbstruck, he’s not quite sure how to respond. “Have you never done anything because it was the right thing to do?”

There’s laughter, and it’s a brittle, olden sound that seems to travel over centuries. What do you think, Little Human?

“I think you have. I think you have done good before.”

The voice only snorts at that.

“They saved the princes because that is what heroes do. But there was gold involved. Later.”

Later in this interminable tale?

“If you would rather discuss terms of joining the Unified Forces of the Light Realm as we fight the Olden G-”

Enough! The scream echoes around his skull and he winces, palms jumping up to cover his ears. But they do nothing to dim the screech coming from his own mind. It is an insult that the Commander did not come. We will not engage in discussions with feeble diplomats.

Aerin drops his hands, stung. “I’m not just a diplomat.”

What do you mean? The voice changes to a purr and he realizes, a split-second too late, that he lost control.

“I mean to say, would you like me to continue the story?”

If you are not just a diplomat, then who are you?

Aerin doesn’t reply, only runs through times tables in his mind until he feels ready to speak. He doesn’t want to give them any ammunition. 

Indeed, he’s not quite sure he knows the answer himself. 

Finally, when he has assured himself that his thoughts and voice are all under control, he speaks. “The princes gave the mercenaries gold to accompany them through the forest. Well, they promised them gold. But before they got the gold, they needed to set up camp for the night. So they all set up camp by a lake, and settled down.”

And so the story continues until the static subsides, and he is finally left alone with his thoughts.

~~~~~~

Would you like to see my fangs?

The buzzing in his skull howls, and he forces it aside. “That is a very odd question, not something polite company generally asks.”

Lady Lilith giggles. Would you? The others always seem fascinated.

And then she’s there, the door flying open at her inhuman strength; Aerin can just glance through the doorway to see a milling servant before Lady Lilith closes it again, the slam shaking the walls. 

“Hello,” he says, rising from where he had been picking through his meal (breakfast or dinner, who could ever tell?). “I’m flattered to warrant a visit.”

“You cannot see my fangs without my presence.”

“I am not sure that -“

“When the humans come, they always stare. Wouldn’t you like a peek?”

He doesn’t yet know what to make of her. She looks remarkably like a child, a rather pale one, but still small. Her bony wrists peek out from her shroud and her smile is almost impish in candlelight, but, when she speaks, Gods, Aerin cannot believe he ever considered her young. The weathered tone of her low voice carries eons, millennia, and it echoes dully in his ears. “I am not interested in your fangs. I am interested in your alliance.”

She’s at his side in an instant, the superhuman speed a blur to his human eye, and her thin fingers drag his hair back so his neck is bared. It’s an uncomfortable angle, the crown of his head tilted so far towards the side of the room that his throat feels stretched and his eyes water, but he forgets the pain when he feels two pin-sharp teeth, right at his jugular.

“I could do it. Right now.” She’s so close her lips brush against his skin with every word, breath tickling the curls that graze his neck, and his heart leaps into a frenetic pace in his chest. “I can see your pulse, Little Human. So close. May I just- may I taste?”

“No.” 

“But it smells so delicious. You don’t understand, do you, what it does to us. Like metal and vengeance and pain. May I?”

It’s a struggle to stay still, but he does, though the nails digging into his scalp make his eyes water, though all he can see is the uneven ceiling above his head. If he sways closer, the sharp points will pierce his skin and, if he moves farther, the hand gripping his curls would snap his neck. “No.”

Finally, with a low groan, she releases him. “You’re lucky you are somewhat amusing. Little Human.”

“Aw, you noticed? I’m touched.”

“I do hope your Commander comes for you.” She steps toward the door, turning as her hand grasps the handle. “It would be a shame if you perished before she arrived.”

By the tone of her voice, Aerin is not sure she considers it any shame at all.

~~~~~

When he is sure it’s daytime (at least he thinks, he thinks, he thinks he is losing his mind) and the vhampyrs are asleep in coffins of their own, he tries to remember, as much as he can, anything, anything at all, that would prove useful.

He remembers packing for the trip, a satchel long lost.

He remembers leading horses over uneven terrain and then, when the path was too treacherous, walking on foot, for days.

And he remembers the starkness of the ruins, Necropolis empty and falling into dust before his very eyes.

“Where are we supposed to look?” Nia asks, carefully stepping over a fallen column. 

“The crypts.” Aerin answers. It feels a betrayal (yet another one) to hope they don’t find it.

They pass ruins and more ruins. Buildings, crumbling to dust. Town squares, desolate and silent save for the howling wind. It’s old, deserted, and they walk down streets of rubble until they come to the center of the city and one solitary mausoleum.

Aerin has seen his share of palaces, but this stands alone in his mind. It’s the only structure truly standing for miles, four stone walls seemingly untouched by the ravages of time. The walls are a deep gray, imposing and strong; if not for the rays of twilight glinting across the stone, they would look almost black. They enclose a space no larger than a single room at the Whitetower palace, short and squat. There are no windows, only an imposing metal door stretching into a pointed arch.

“Is this the place?” Imtura’s eyes are dubious as she takes in the stone. “I don’t know if I can fit inside.”

“Must be. It must go down, underneath the city.” Aerin answers.

Imtura cuts her eyes to him before she turns to the iron-wrought door with a shake of her head. “Shall we?”

“No, let’s wait. We need to give it a few minutes.”

“Why?” Nia looks curiously at him.

“The vhampyrs won’t be awake. They sleep during the day and… and hunt at night. We need to catch them right as they wake up.”

“How do you know all this, landrat?”

“Books in the Archives, research.” He shrugs. “It’s mostly fable, but better than nothing.”

“Anything else we should know?” Nia asks.

“They do not feel temperature; those receptors on their skin are all dead. They drink blood, obviously, but also eat things full of blood, organs, the like. Don’t eat the food. It’s not meant for human or orc consumption; legends claim that ingesting food touched by the hands of an immortal can make you ill. Like, incredibly, deadly ill.”

“Sounds pleasant.”

“Indeed.” Aerin wracks his brain for any other tidbit of information he has gleaned from the archives. “The clan is about fifty individual vhampyrs, all sharing a fang line.”

Nia glances at him. “A fang line?”

“The clan is all descended from the bite of the clean leader. Very hierarchical, and we will be expected to show extreme deference to the leaders. And they are very devoted to those in the clan; loyalty is highly valued.”

“So they probably won’t take too kindly to betrayers, will they, princeling?”

Aerin shakes his head, something like dread pooling in his stomach. “Probably not.” Not one race in the world takes kindly to traitors; it’s not like the vhampyrs would be an exception. “I don’t remember much else. It’s been so long since I dove into that section of the archives.”

“It’s fine.” Nia smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure it will be enough.”

“Reckon we can enter now?” Imtura asks.

Aerin surveys the horizon. The sun has just dipped below treeline; while the hazy clouds above reflect a few pale rays, it is undoubtedly dusk. “Yes. We should go.”

Imtura leads them closer down the path, weathered and crunching beneath their feet, and they stand before the unnervingly imposing door of the tiny building.

Something tickles in Aerin’s memory, something about visiting.

Before he can parse the recollection, Imtura knocks and the door creaks open. A tall, thin vhampyr stands before them; Aerin tries not to gape, but he’s sure his mouth is hanging open. This is the first vhampyr he’s seen in the flesh and, while he knows that staring is a rudeness, he can’t help himself. The vhampyr is pale, his flesh almost glowing like moonlight, and his eyes beam a pale red that seems to overshadow his entire face. His cape is deep obsidian, flowing out behind him in the evening breeze, and thin fingers curl around the door.

Those red eyes stare at them for entirely too long; Aerin shivers under their weight but, if Raine is relying on his diplomacy, then he has no choice but to step forward.

“Hello. My name is Aerin Valleros, emissary of the Commander of the Armies of Light,” Aerin bobs his head in greeting and gestures to each of his party, “and these are my companions, Imtrua Tal Kaelen, of the United Clans of Flotilla, and Nia Ellarious, Head Priestess of the High Temple of Whitetower.”

If the vhampyr knew of them, he did not react, only continued to drive his eerie gaze straight into Aerin’s soul.

Aerin inhales before continuing. “We are here on behalf of the Commander to discuss a matter of deep import that would affect the entire realm.”

Still, the vhampyr says nothing, the silence eerie and cold, though his long fingers tighten against the doorway. Slowly, he steps back, and Aerin shares a glance with Nia and Imtura. Shrugging, Imtura takes a step forward and, as her foot hovers over the threshold, Aerin grabs her arm, stopping her in her tracks. She only raises an eyebrow but obliges, taking a step back.

Aerin addresses the vhampyr. “May we come in?”

His heart hammers as he waits but, finally, there is a slight smile and the ghoul speaks at last, voice like the rattle of a scroll over every consonant. “Please be welcome.”

They follow his silent footsteps and, in a low tone, Aerin whispers, “We need to be invited inside. It’s important to them.”

Imtura only shrugs and ducks as they follow down a pale stairwell, torches lighting the way on each side. Aerin loses track of how deep into the earth they travel, but, eventually, the stairs open into a wide entryway where three additional vhampyrs await them. This is obviously the ruling family. There’s a broad man clad in a black cape, looking impossibly tall in the flickering torches. The woman beside him is adorned in a dazzling deep red gown, lace dancing up a gray collarbone to highlight a dazzling blood-red gemstone dangling from a satin ribbon. And then there’s a girl, perhaps twelve, looking intently at them, clad in a simple dark shroud clamped tightly around her torso with thin hands that taper off into pointed nails.

“Hello.” Aerin nods and, though his mouth runs suddenly dry, he curls his fingers into his palms and continues. “I am is Aerin Valleros, the emissary of the Commander of the Armies of Light, and these are my companions, Imtrua Tal Kaelen, of the United Clans of Flotilla, and Nia Ellarious, Head Priestess of the High Temple of Whitetower.” Imtura and Nia step forward, Nia with a small curtsy.

The three vhampyrs turn and look at each other before the man steps forward. “I am Baron Claudius, and this is Madame Miriam.” The woman curtsies as she is introduced, and a hint of fang peeks out underneath burgundy lipstick. “And this little one is Lady Lilith. Thank you for respecting our customs; as we would not seek to enter your home uninvited, we appreciate your courtesy of the same.” The child smiles, a tight, forced movement, and terror creeps up Aerin’s spine.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, and we thank you for your hospitality. We come about a war brewing in the realm of Light and seek your assistance.”

“A war?” Madame Miriam, mouth agape.

Imtura jumps in. “And it will come for you if we can’t stop it.”

“Ha. War does not concern us,” Baron Claudius scoffs. “We have seen many wars over the millennia and outlasted them all.”

Aerin tries not to shiver as he speaks, but the underground chill winds its way through his tunic. “This war is different. The Old Gods come for the Realm, and they shall spare none.”

The Baron stares at him, eyes narrow, before turning back to his companions for another round of wordless conversation. Aerin barely has a moment to wonder if they’re in each other’s minds when there is a hum, right in the center of forehead, and then a soft whir of static stretching to his temples. 

‘No.’

He purposely clears his mind, surveying each of the vhampyrs in turn, the frown of the Baron, the smirk of Madame Miriam’s rouged lips, the forceful eyes of Lady Lilith.

‘Begone!’

With a sigh, the static recedes. He tries to catch the eye of one of his companions, to see if they had felt the same, when Madame Miriam speaks.

“We could… we could discuss the matter over our evening meal.”

“Splendid,” the Baron nods, but his smile stays contained to his lips. “Come.”

With only a worried glance between each other, Aein, Nia, and Imtura make their way further into the crypts.

Aerin wonders if he should have turned around then, should have fled, given up on the vhampyr allies and ran, like a coward. 

He has plenty of experience in that, after all.

No. Not anymore. Not now, he wouldn’t have. He remembers his last conversation with Raine, the earnestness on her face, her hands sure and soft in his.

Even knowing his fate rests within these damp walls, he would do it all over again.

~~~~~

On the third day, Lady Lilith brings him a tray of food in person.

The blanket is still wrapped around his legs, accomplishing nothing against the frigid underground floor, but he scrambles up as soon as he sees her.

“Lady Lilith, hello.” He bows his head. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“I come with your breakfast.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t need to lift the lid to know it is the fat and muscle of some unfortunate animal. Raw. The smell is familiar enough by now. “I would offer you a seat but, as you see, I have no chair.”

“I prefer the floor.” She gracefully lowers to the ground, knees tucked primly beneath her, and studies him under eyelashes that are tinged with white. “You know, we do get some word of human events.”

“Truly?” he asks, placing the platter down before joining her on the ground. 

“Yes. We know a bit of the outside world, but had no idea the emissaries of Light would dare come see us.” Lady Lilith looks about him, almost bored, but there is an edge to her voice that sets Aerin nerves aflame.

“And what do you hear from outside?”

“Snippets. Stories of those who live in the Light Realm.” She waves her hand, dismissive, unaffected. “The Elves have magic, the Orcan do not. And there are humans, like you.” Her violet eyes darken as they glare at him. “They serve a King. A Valleros King.” 

Aerin freezes, breath shallow. “Oh?”

“You did say…” She leans forward so they are at eye level; he can see her pupils narrow in the center of her violet irises. “You did say your name was Aerin, correct?”

He doesn’t answer until her hand drapes over his shoulder, and those gray talons dig into his skin. “Yes.”

“Aerin Valleros.”

“Yes.”

She straightens with triumph in her eyes. “So we have a Little Prince, do we not?”

“You’ve heard of me? I’m flattered.” He’s sure his smirk wavers, and it takes every focus to steady it.

“Why does a Prince follow the Commander? Is that how it works in the human world?”

He takes too long to answer, and soon, the buzzing is back. Little Prince?

“Don’t call me that.”

Why not?

A memory resurfaces, Itty Bitty Prince, and he shoves it down, away, away. “So the two princes and the mercenaries awoke, and the drakna had recaptured them.”

This again?

“They all awoke inside the drakna nest, a vile place, these gross cocoons suspended over the forest floor. Just a mass of goo so thick the sunlight cannot penetrate.”

I don’t like sunlight anyway.

“I’m aware, but humans live in sunlight; we need it to see. So our mercenaries and princes were all trapped in this vile goo cocoon, and the hero rescued them.”

Wait, who is the hero?

“One of the mercenaries, please keep up.”

Ah, of course.

“She used her sword and arrows to free her friends and the princes and, while they all were rescued, they actually killed the drakna queen, the biggest and baddest of the monsters. But there was still trouble afoot.”

Does this story ever end?

“The princes were actually evil.”

Oooh, a twist. I like it.

“Yes, but the mercenaries didn’t know that. The princes are hiding their evil nature, one better than the other.”

Are they really evil? Or do people just think that they are evil because they don’t understand?

Aerin stops and stares at her, watching the violet in her eyes dim. He knows he’s out of practice dealing with emotions, but he is clever, quick-witted, and, after years of deception, he understands people. There’s something here. “Lady Lilith, will you speak with me? In person?” The static recedes.

“Aren’t you going to tell the rest of the story?” she asks aloud.

“I don’t think you’re evil. You know that, right? And neither does the Commander. If we did, we wouldn’t have come here. We wouldn’t want to be allies.”

Lady Lilith studies him for so long that he starts to fear he read her wrong. But then she leaps to her feet, her shroud swirling about her like a ghostly mist. “I will…” She opens the door and fixes him with an inscrutable glance. “I will speak with you tomorrow.”

~~~~~

And on that day, he’s starving.

“You know we don’t really eat this food, right?”

There is a pause in his brain. What do you mean?

“Humans need different food than you. We don’t drink-” He eyes the copper pitcher at his side dubiously. “-blood.”

There is a longer pause. You don’t?

“Do you remember being alive? Being mortal?”

Vaguely. It was so long ago.

“Well, when you were, I assure you, unless you were a mosquito, you did not drink blood.”

It’s been so, so long.

“You must have seen a lot of change.” Aerin wonders what it’s like to watch time flow past you while you yourself remain still. Probably like watching Whitetower from a prison window, he supposes, or watching the walls of an underground crypt. Time passes somehow while you yourself don’t move.

It’s hard to keep track of, sometimes. I guess we forget how to care for a human.

“You should have started with a dog.”

She chuckles and the static blooms in his mind before trailing away and Aerin is, once again, alone with his thoughts.

He waits, watching the door, and when she doesn’t return after an interminable time, he peeks at the food under the platter. As he guessed, inedible raw meat of indeterminate origin. However, he’s out of options. 

Snatching a torch from the wall, he does his best. Tilting the platter lets him rotate the meal without touching it and, though it burns his fingers a few times, eventually he can make enough of a char that at least it isn’t raw.

His own warnings about the vhampyr food echo as he takes his first bite. And then his second. And then he is losing count, for the bites that follow consist of him ingesting the food as fast as he can.

His stomach roils as he finally empties the platter and, while his vision is a little wonky, he feels decent - well, as decent as one can be when trapped in a crypt full of vhampyrs. So he supposes that’s something.

~~~~~

Worse than the hunger is the solitude. It's tedious, pacing the four walls of his cell, one direction and then the other to break up the monotony. And it's also terribly lonely. Ever since he rejoined Raine and her party, he had thought - hoped - that the heartache that followed him since birth might be healing, every jovial conversation and gentle caress sewing up a deep pain like mending a rip in fabric.

Unfortunately, it's easier to be alone when it's all you know; now that he's known friendship, love, well, this loneliness is excruciating.

On day five, Lady Lilith finally returns with some water. 

“Oh, hello, Lady Lilith. You’re awake.” He clambers up and bows; time seems to flow differently within the four walls of his cell. Wasn’t it the middle of the day? “How can you spend your time speaking with me? Don’t you need to feed?”

Her laugh is bitter, older than time itself, and it sends a shiver down his spine. “I have servants to hunt for me. Here. Drink.”

He looks into the pitcher, eyebrow raised. There is a fir sprig floating at the top, and three shiny pebbles glint at the bottom. “Thank you.”

“It’s from the river in the woods. Far from Necropolis. It should be safe.”

He takes a tentative sip, and then another, and soon he is gulping his way through the entire pitcher. “It’s perfect. Hint of pine.”

“I can get more. Tomorrow. The sun will be up soon.”

“It will?” Without a window, time is meaningless.

She sits across from him, gnawing her lower lip where a smear of red appears to be drying. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Are you one of the princes?”

“Who? … oh, from the story.” He pauses. “I’m flattered that you’re actually invested in my tale.”

“Well?”

He checks his mind and, thankfully, he is alone; it’s much harder to deceive someone who can hear your thoughts.. “I am a prince but, Lady Lilith, it’s just a story.”

She frowns, as if his answer is unsatisfactory. “And how does it end, Little Prince?”

“Please stop calling me-”

“How does it end?”

“I… I’m not sure.” He knows how parts of the story end, of course, the defeat of the Dreadlord and the Ashen Empress, and the rise of Nifara. But the entire story? “I guess we will have to see when I get to the conclusion.”

“I like happy endings.”

“... I would not have guessed that.”

She giggles, hand over her lips, and only the pale skin and purple eyes give away the fact that she is not a normal child. “Who doesn’t like a happy ending? Will this story have a happy ending? Please?”

Aerin looks around the room, the windowless walls, the coffin as the sole piece of furniture, the fact that he hasn’t seen the sun in a week, and the only answer he can provide is “I’m not sure.”

~~~~~

“Please, be seated.”

The table is adorned with a tablecloth of deep red, a couple servants smoothing the edges while another carts pitchers to the table. Four serving platters sit covered, the closest just inches away from the ivory plate and crystal wine glass placed in front of him.

It smells of decay.

Imtura sits to his right, muscles tense and ready, while Nia’s face is only calm and curious. He sometimes envies her inner strength, her fortitude under challenging conditions, and never more so than now, as six unnaturally colored eyes follow his every move.

When the servants lift the platters’ covers with a flourish, Aerin can only stare in horror at what emerges underneath, more innards than he has ever seen - entrails, one platter stacked with hearts glistening so vividly that he can only imagine they were beating just hours ago, red jellied concoctions dotted with organ meat. Then, servants pour red liquid into his wine glass, and he needs to fight the dry heave as the smell of iron wafts up. Nia turns to him and all he can do is shake his head, subtly; they cannot and should not consume this.

“Thank you for your hospitality, but I regret that we cannot partake of your generosity this evening,” he says, swallowing down the bile, “Unfortunately we cannot eat a single-”

“Why?” Lady Lilith looks at him, tilting her head. “I assure you, these are from animals. No… humans were harmed in the making of this meal. You are a human, yes?” The last question is a purr, and all of Aerin’s hackles rise.

“I am. And we eat our meat-”

“If these delicacies were created from people, would you eat them?” Madame Miriam asks, and he could almost believe in her naivete had her eyes not been gleaming like the ruby at her throat.

His stomach turns. “Unfortunately, I would rather spend our time discussing the great threat to our Realm. The Commander of the Armies of Light is gathering allies-”

“And where is this Commander of yours?” Lady Lilith lifts her fork, sharp points of her fingernails gleaming like a knife edge, and, too swiftly for his eyes to catch, stabs it into the center of a heart, plucking it triumphantly from the platter. “Could they not come to beg for assistance themselves?”

Imtura crosses her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately, she’s busy at the moment.”

“But we are her trusted emissaries and I assure you that any agreement we make will be-” Aerin jumps in, but it’s too late.

“We would prefer to discuss the matter with your Commander.” Baron Claudius interjects around a mouthful of liquid. Aerin is watching a drop of red pool at the corner of his lips, just beginning to descend down his graying chin when he feels it - again - the buzz in his mind.

Quickly, he surveys the table; the Baron still swigs his blood, Madame Miriam is cutting a piece of jellied carcass, but Lady Lilith, the young one, is staring at him as if she were trying to drill through his skull.

He imagines that she is.

‘Begone from my mind.’

He realizes in shock that he has found the leader of the fang line, in the guise of a small slender child.

Her voice is a hiss in his head. ‘You’re clever, Little Human.’ It’s nauseating, the familiarity of another’s voice in his brain, another’s whispers he can’t drown out; this time, there is no stone to rip from his chest to end the hushed tone rattling his brain.

‘Begone,’ he grinds back. ‘Leave my head.’ When the static doesn’t abate, he fills his head with song, as loudly as he can without moving his lips. Just when Gartho is about to abscond with the queen’s buttons and hood, it’s gone. The roar leaves his head, and he is left with blessed silence.

“Do you really think we should get involved in the affairs of mortals?” Madame Miriam is asking once his attention returns to the table.

The Baron opens his mouth to reply, but Lady Lilith beats him to it, standing with a clatter. “We may, but only if we can speak to this Commander herself.”

The other two vhampyrs stand, and Aerin is wise enough to know they are being dismissed, so he stands as well, Nia and Imtura following.

“We will relay this information and return post haste. I am sure that -”

“Not all of you will.” Lady Lilith’s mouth opens into a smile that showcases her shiny, deadly teeth; Aerin averts his eyes. “One of you will stay. To ensure she will come.”

“Excuse me? No one is staying.” Imtura takes a step forward, as if to go through the table, but Aerin stops her with a hand on her bicep. 

Lady Lilith’s eyes flash molten violet, and she says, “I want an assurance that your Commander will visit us in person. Either two of you leave or none of you do.” 

Aerin has made many misjudgments in his life, far too many to count, but he’s sure that this could play out one of two ways. In one scenario, he, Nia, and Imtura die. And in the other? “Fine,” he replies, directly to Lady Lilith and her fanged smile.

“Aerin, what do you-?”

“Nia, it’s fine.”

Lady Lilith’s smile grows wider, and she claps her hands together in murderous glee. “Excellent. It’s decided. The human boy will stay.”

“No.” Imtura moves as if to reach for her axes, and his fingers tighten.

“Imtura, stop.”

“Have you lost it, landrat?”

“It’s fine.” He grinds out, dropping his voice to a whisper. “They could kill us all before you manage to pull one ax, I assure you.”

“We can’t leave you here, Raine will-”

“Raine will come. We will have our detente. It will be fine.” He holds her gaze, just long enough that she softens, and then he drops her arm with a sigh. Turning to the vhampyrs, he speaks louder. “And you assure me that they will have safe passage out of the city?”

“Surely. We’d never go back on our word.” Lady Lilith’s smirk does not give him confidence, but none of this plan gives him any kind of surety.

He steps forward with one last glance to Nia and Imtura, hoping they can read his plea to flee. And then, turning to the vhampyr leader, he nods. “I will stay.”

“Splendid. Follow me. I will show you to your quarters.”

He doesn’t watch Nia and Imtura leave - he can’t. Unfortunately, he lacks the bravery to watch them go silently, to not call out to them and beg them to wait, so he doesn’t even turn. He only follows Lady Lilith’s careful footsteps down more steps than he can count, mind-boggling pathways carved of the earth and inhabited for thousands of years. Just when he is sure he’s seen these particular cobblestones previously on their trek, she stops, pointing to a doorway.

“And this is where you will stay.”

Aerin’s eyes widen as he takes in the room. He’s definitely stayed in worse accommodations, but, with the past year at his back, his hackles rise at yet another prison cell. His fingers tremble, and his breath hitches shortly, hints of gray at the edges of his vision, before he can return to himself. Vaguely, so long ago it may have been another life, he remembers telling Raine to take a deep breath, right when the current of pain threatened to tear her away, and he is grateful for the reminder even as he stores it as far out of reach as possible. He inhales, slowly, and glances around.

There is one large room, windowless like all the others, and the three torches are too few to provide much light in the chilly chamber. To the right is a small door, almost certainly leading to a washroom or lavatory, but his gaze is transfixed by the deep mahogany at the center of the room.

“Is that… is that meant to be my bed?”

“Yes?” Lady Lilith eyes him, and he tries to stifle his discontent. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s just… humans don’t sleep in coffins.”

“Then what do you sleep in?”

“Beds?”

She narrows her eyes, pondering. “You know, I vaguely remember beds.”

“Do you? Because this is not exactly…”

“It will need to do.” Her voice sounds curt, eyes assessing. “If your Commander is all you claim, you won’t be here for long.”

“She is all I claim and more.”

“Well, then.” 

She turns to leave, but Aerin stops her with one more question. “Am I truly to remain stuck in this room?”

“It’s safer for you if you do.” She yanks open the door, forcefully, and Aerin is struck, but the incongruity of her slight frame and the fearsome strength it holds. “But this lock here will make sure of it.”

The door closes with a slam, and his shoulders droop. He should be used to prisons. He’s been in his fair share recently. 

But none so unnervingly creepy.

When his eyes fly open, his mind is ablaze in static and he sits up in a panic, shockingly thrown awake in a mere instant. “I can sing you the ballad - it’s a good one. How Gartho Swindled the Elven Queen.”

No need.

“Did you know that the mercenaries helped at the Battle of Whitetower?” His stomach aches, an empty yawning sensation that makes it hard to focus on his words.

Do you dream often?

“Never. I never do.”

Don’t lie to me, Little Prince.

He squints his eyes, trying to fight back the buzz in his mind. “Perhaps I prefer to keep my dreams to myself.”

Why? That was a boring dream. And I was there for it; I already knew what happened. Do you know why I wanted you to stay?

“Stay here?”

Yes.

He’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer. “Why?”

Because you fought me. The others, the green one, your pretty friend, they didn’t even know I was there.

“You mean they didn’t know you were in their heads?” So much for his advice.

The green one thinks of her mother. And the pretty one wanted to help us. But you? You fought me. And after so long, I do like a challenge?

“So if I had let you see into my mind, you would have let me go?”

Maybe. Maybe not. It may still have ended up like your dream. Who knows?

After a life lived as a miserable failure, it’s only fitting that his success lead him into a vhampyr’s lair. “Do you dream?”

Lady Lilith hums, and it makes his brain shake. Sometimes. Sometimes I dream of things far past, of people I once cared for. Do you?

I do not, I do not, I do not. Perhaps if he repeats it enough, it will be true.

I can tell you are lying.

“I dream of the mercenaries.” He will never reveal the dreams he revels in, keeps close to his heart. “Where did I leave off in my tale?”

Your stories are tiresome.

“I am tiresome. So the mercenaries were just leaving the forest with the evil princes when they had to part ways.”

Why?

“They were going in separate directions, but one of the evil princes knew they would meet again.”

How?

“Uh… evil ways?” Aerin shrugs, even though she cannot see it, and continues on. “But they do meet again. Later. The mercenaries go on their way to the Elven city, and the princes return home to the palace.”

What is the Elven city like?

“I’ve never been.” He’d always wanted to visit, had read tomes about it at the Archives, but only King Arlan and the Crown Prince had been permitted to visit. “I’ve heard it chiseled into a mountain.”

So there is no daylight. Maybe I could visit.

“Would you like to?”

Yes. There is… much in this world I have not seen.

“Odd, since you’ve been alive for so long.”

Most places do not take kindly to immortal visitors and most people do not visit us. We’ve never had a human visitor before.

“Can’t imagine why,” Aerin mumbles.

We’ve had humans come, a few, but only to request to be turned. Or to hunt us.

“I can imagine that those hunters turned into the hunted.”

She chuckles. Yes, very quickly… and deliciously.

“Did you turn any of them?”

The ones we took a liking to. Sometimes, it doesn’t work and they perish, most painfully.

He shudders. If his current predicament is bad, he can’t imagine worse.

What is it like in the human world?

The question seems honest, curious, and the static doesn’t deepen - she’s not probing his thoughts and memories for information. “It’s not underground, for one. Our buildings are above ground since we can be in the sunlight, and there are towns and cities where many humans live together, much like this.”

Are they all related? Like us?

“Not everyone in a city, but families will usually share a home.”

Do you have a home?

His gut twists and his fingers tremble, a curious unsettling shake, so he curves his hands into fists so tight his fingernails dig into flesh. “I did. Once. But now I travel by the Commander’s side, mostly.”

So you are always working.

“It’s not always work. We share meals, for example, share stories. Campfires and adventures and… other things.” Aerin needs to screw his eyes shut to hide the tears welling just behind his eyelids. Thinking about Raine hurts.

You are very loyal to your Commander.

“I wasn’t always.” It might be a mistake to divulge, but his situation can’t get much worse. “We went through a lot of struggles to get to where we are.”

Why? Is… Is your Commander mean?

“What? No! The struggles were mine and mine alone.” He swallows hard. “The Commander is… incredible. You will see when you meet her.”

Do you still think she is coming?

He doesn’t answer the question. In his heart, he knows that she would never leave any of them behind. But in his mind, well, he can see the danger of bringing the entire party to Necropolis and, if she had to lose a member of her party, unfortunately, the non-magical weakling betrayer would be the most logical choice, regardless of whatever undefined attachment existed between them. 

Lady Lilith continues. Or do you think she will leave you to be locked away with the vhampyrs, never to be freed?

He doesn’t answer that question either, but shoots back one of his own. “If she does come, what will you do when she arrives?”

Lady Lilith doesn’t reply.

~~~~~

It starts slowly. 

His mind starts to play tricks on him, a flash of light where none exists, a phantom touch when he’s alone. He opens his eyes to see Raine, standing in a corner looking downcast; when he leaps up to greet her, she disappears, his hands wrapping around cold air.

He could almost brush it off as a symptom of imprisonment when the cough begins, settling in his chest as a heavy weight.

His voice cracks in the middle of the tale. He’s just recounting how the mercenaries are gathering troops to fight the Ashen Empress when Lady Lilith interjects.

Do you need water?

“From the river? Sure, thank you.”

When Lady Lilith returns, he’s overheating despite the chill, traces of sweat beginning at his hairline, slipping down his face.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course.” He wipes his brow. “Now where was I?”

“The evil Ashen Empress. Was she evil like the princes?”

“I…” It takes him far longer than he’d like to answer this question. “No. The princes were different. The Empress wanted to kill everyone.”

“Sometimes those that the world thinks are murderers are actually something different.”

His head begins to throb. “Lady Lilith, are you speaking in riddles?”

“No, continue, continue. So the mercenaries prepare for war.”

“Yes. So they all get ready, very exciting. Even the bard is there.”

“Who?”

“The hero’s brother. He tells stories, sings tales of old.”

“Like you?”

“This isn’t a tale of old! This was about the Battle of-”

“I thought it was just a story.” Lady Lilith narrows her eyes.

“Of course it is.” 

“Then, will you ever tell me the ending? How does it end?”

He doesn’t know; he can only pray - not here, not here, please, not here. “I will tell you the end, but-” He’s cut off by a cough. “Do you… do you mind if we continue the story later? I’m not… I forget the words.”

Lady Lilith looks confused, but nods. Aerin doesn’t look up as she leaves, only focusing on a singular point on the stone floor to keep the nausea at bay.

~~~~~

Seven days.

Fourteen meals.

Though he may have lost count.

~~~~~

Ten days.

The world sways, as if his vision were failing or if he were no longer on solid ground, instead tilted at stomach-churning angles.

That morning (or whatever ill-defined time the exhaustion threatens to take him away), he can’t take the chill of the floor any longer, so he grabs the wispy blanket and crawls into the coffin.

The walls are green velvet, soft, and it’s absurdly comfortable.

Dimly, before sleep takes him, he thinks that he might want to stay there forever.

~~~~~

Thirteen days.

The blood in his veins burns. Is it his own?

If they were going to come, wouldn’t they be here by now?

~~~~~

“And then the portals opened, and the battle began.” Aerin tries to move his eyelids, but they only open halfway. He can see the ceiling through the flutter of his lashes, and the sweat pouring off him has soaked the velvet of his coffin. If he could get up, he’s sure he would see a wet imprint of his body in darkened green, but he can’t even imagine moving. 

“Were they all there?”

“Hmmm…. Who?” Aerin’s losing his mind and he’s pretty sure he lost the plot of his own story, but he can see the moon from his cell twirling in frantic circles before his eyes but he’s underground (he thinks, he thinks) so he’s sure he’s seeing things but can he truly be sure of anything anymore? What story was he telling? 

“The mercenaries?”

“Where?”

“At the battle against the Ash Empress!”

“Ah, yes. They were there. They all were. The Hero, the priestess, the Orcan princess, the grumpy mage, the insufferable rogue.”

“Was the bard there?”

He blinks. The walls appear to be dripping blood. “Yes. Why? Is that your favorite character?”

“I appreciate a good storyteller.”

“Ah…” Aerin trails off as his vision is almost entirely red. “Well, I do… I do apologize that I am not…” And then there is only darkness.

~~~~~

It’s dark. 

It’s always so dark.

~~~~~

“Wake up, wake up, wake up, Little Prince!”

It’s painful to open his eyes. His head hammers in pain, almost overpowering Lady Lilith’s words, but he can hear the years in her voice over his headache. “What?”

“You need to stay awake, Little Prince.”

He is exhausted, so bone-weary that the strength to hold her gaze is painful. “I want to sleep.”

“No.” There is panic in the word. “No, you mustn’t, you mustn’t.” He nods, but his eyes slide shut. “No! Please. Tell me… tell me about the story.”

“What about it?” he murmurs.

“It’s always been real, hasn’t it?”

His lips are so dry that he tastes blood every time he licks his lips. “What has?”

“The story. The mercenaries.”

“Of course… mostly.” Even his bones are tired, but he doesn’t need to defend himself from the outside voices in his brain anymore. His mind is empty.

“Little Prince.” Lady Lilith grabs his shoulders and shakes; he winces. “Sorry. Tell me the story again.”

“Which one?”

“Any one.” His eyes flutter shut, and she rubs his shoulder, gentler this time. “Aerin!”

“The Heroes went into the forest and defeated the monsters and saved the princes. And they all fought a God of Old. It was real.” 

“You were there.”

“Yes, we all were.” The cold has seeped into his brain, and every inhale audibly cracks his ribs.

“Your companions? The travelers we dined with? They were there?” He can only nod. “And who is your green friend?”

“The tough one.”

“And the pretty human?”

“The kind one.”

“And which character are you?”

There are spots in Aerin’s visions, dark masses that sway about the periphery. “The one who either leaves…” He breaks off with a cough so deep it feels like it’s scarring his lung with every forceful exhale. “Or gets left behind.” And then the black spots enlarge and swallow him whole.

~~~~~ 

There’s sunlight. Aerin looks around him in awe. There’s sunlight!

He takes a deep breath of the fresh forest air, looking around in utter delight. The canopy of trees about his head is sparse, allowing ample daylight to filter through, and the harmonies of song and merriment carry down a dirt path. 

As he steps forward, he realizes in an instant where he is. These are the woods outside Riverbend and, as he turns the corner nearing the temple, he stops short at the figure waiting for him, lounging on a boulder.

“Raine!” He jogs forward, smiling growing wider with every step, until he slows when he is mere feet from her. As she stands, there is fury painting her flawless features. “Raine, what’s wrong?”

Her voice drips venom. “You lied to me.”

“What?” He wracks his brain for deception and nothing comes. “I… no, no longer. What do you mean?”

“You said you would come back.”

“I… I am here now.” He’s not quite sure what she’s referring to, but he’s standing right before her, in the flesh. “I am here. I will always be here.”

“That is not true, Aerin. That is what you do. You leave.”

“But I -”

“You leave me.”

“No.” He shakes his head frantically. “No, I never wish to be parted from you, you know that. I would never, never again.” His legs carry him forward to embrace her, but she only steps away, tears brimming in her eyes.

“You promised.” A sudden wind whips through the wood as she turns away, leaden steps taking her further from him. “Aerin,” she calls over her shoulder, “you promised.”

“Wait.” He wraps his arm around his torso; the wind turns frigid, so cold, always so cold, and she crests over a hill and out of side. “Wait!” His useless feet won’t move and the chill settles in his bones. Is this his destiny? Doomed to be separated from the one person whom his heart beats for?

The chattering of his teeth awakens him.

When Aerin opens his eyes, Lady Lilith stands above him, worry lines etched in the pale skin of her forehead.

“That’s not concerning.” A cough cuts him off, and he waits until his lungs stop rattling to speak. “Not concerning at all, waking up to a vhampyr staring at you.”

“I would change you.” She whispers, urgently. “If I had to, I would.”

“No.” More coughing. “No.” His mind flashes to a millennium without sunlight, missing the golden rays of sunshine peeking over the Cartesian Sea, the bustle of the Whitetower marketplace, the sun gleaming off Raine’s hair, her smile as they hike through woods bathed in the afternoon warmth. “Don’t change me.”

Lady Lilith blinks back tears, though a few break free to edge over her cheekbone. They glisten in the torchlight, like dew at breaking dawn, a sight he shall never see again.

His own eyes start to sting, sweat trailing down his face, and there’s salt on his tongue. Lady Lilith grabs his hand, clutching it carefully in her corded strength, holding tight until the darkness welcomes him again.

~~~~~

Days fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen don’t count.

He doesn’t wake up for them.

~~~~~

He can hear the voice above him, and it could be a dream; it must be a dream. 

His mind is his own, but it’s playing tricks on him, assuredly, because it sounds like Raine is standing right above his head.

He’s flying, the room spinning in circles about him, and if he looks at the walls about him, they blur as if he turning around and around, faster and faster, and there is a light, somewhere, from outside, or maybe inside his skull, and he is dying, he is dead; he has been reborn, and he cannot breathe. 

He rolls over and vomits.

As he’s wiping bile from his lips, the door opens and Lady Lilith storms in. “Let’s get you up, Little Prince.”

“Please stop calling me that.” He wipes his lips on his sleeve and his teeth chatter against the fabric. It’s so cold.

“You need to get up. We have guests.”

“What- who-”

With superhuman strength, she jostles him until, while he may be on two feet, he is mostly leaning on her, draped over a small shoulder as he takes one stuttering step after another. They travel through the crypts, torchlight causing shadows to jump across the walls, making him nauseous anew, but finally, they reach a wooden door.

Even though it’s latched tight, he can hear voices on the other side. Loud. Unyielding. “I demand my diplomat.”

Aerin raises his head. “Raine? Is it really-”

The static invades his skull again. Who is she?

“Stop, please stop!” He tries to sing Gartho the Trickster but he can’t focus; his temples throb and besides, all that matters is that Raine is on the other side of this damnable door. 

Who is she?

“She’s the Hero.”

Who?

“The Hero of Morella, Commander of the all the Forces of Light, Savior of the Reams and Champion to All, please just-”

Lady Lilith shifts him so she can peer into his face. She speaks now, out of his head, her voice a whisper in the hall. “Is she the same hero from the mercenary tale? With the princes?”

“Yes.” Aerin is too weak to lie; he can’t even raise his hands to wipe the moisture pooling in his eyes. “Please, just- I just need to see her.”

The vhampyr leader is silent for far too long before she lowers him to the ground, crouching in the dirt beside him. “Aerin.” Her palm graces his cheek and it’s cold, so cold, and the shivering hurts his teeth. “How does the story end?”

And he doesn’t think, just replies, too weak to manufacture any artifice. The story ends the only way possible, the only way it can truly end, and, when he trails off into silence, her violet eyes glisten with unshed tears.

Finally, she stands and speaks. “Wait here.” With that command, she strides through the doorway and he hears the dull sound of a latch locking.

Aerin could almost cry, in an inglorious heap, with one measly door between him and Raine. He crawls forward over the rough earth, stones digging into his fingertips and leaving bloody droplets in the dirt. When he makes it to the door, he lifts his hands to bang against the wood but his fists barely make a sound; he is so weak, so tired, and the grains of the wooden boards are swirling before his eyes. He can’t even yell, voice a mere croak, and he slides in defeat down to the floor.

He has failed, he realizes. He was not able to broker an accord, was not even able to get any kind of agreement, and he wasn’t able to protect Raine.

And then the ground rushes up to meet his face and there is only silence.

~~~~~

He’s in the air, he’s flying, he’s falling.

There’s yelling, but it’s not him; his mouth feels like it has been stuffed with gauze, and his eyes only open wide enough for his lashes to flutter tremulously in his vision but he’s on his feet, somehow.

There’s the unsheathing of a sword.

More yelling.

The sheathing of a sword.

A flash of yellow and gold in front of him, steady arms holding him up as his boots struggle and fail to find purchase on the floor.

Safety.

“I’m sorry,” he says the words into the armor mushed into his cheek, but he’s not sure anyone can hear him. His throat is so raw, he can barely hear himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. For all of it.”

More yelling.

Static and buzzing, traveling from his forehead to his ears, just a roar frying his brain cells, and he can’t even fight it as he passes out again.

He awakens again to a flash of green, and he’s soaring through the air anew; while there is less screaming, he’s numb and cannot feel a thing. The world spins and that’s when his brain shuts down.

~~~~~

When he awakens, actually awakens, he is in a plush bed, and light streams into the room. It’s been so long since he has seen the sun that he only gapes at the golden rays streaming through the window. The room is warm, especially under plush covers, and it’s been so long since he’s seen sunlight and felt warmth on his skin that he props up on one wavering elbow and stares for minutes until he realizes, with a start, that he’s in Raine’s palace room.

“Good morning.”

He starts again at a voice to his left and, though it aches, he turns to see Raine perched on a chair, staring at him and gnawing on her bottom lip. He means to say hello, truly he does, but all that emerges from his mouth is “Oww.”

“Are you ok?” She’s at his side in an instant.

“I love you.” It’s raspy but audible, and he sighs as he sinks back into the plush mattress.

“That… is not an answer to my question.”

“I know, but I spent the last few weeks wondering if I could ever say it again, so I didn’t want to miss my moment.”

She shakes her head fondly and threads a hand through his curls before carefully sliding onto the bed next to him. “I love you, too.”

“I had a feeling,” he replies; she chuffs his shoulder and, for the first time in weeks, he feels like he can relax. “I told you I would come back.”

“Do not- Do not joke about that. Do you know what state we found you in?”

 “A state befitting of my heroic deeds?”

“I thought you were going to die!” The arm that has wound its way around his waist squeezes tighter. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Eh, I was fine. I will be fine. Just a few more minutes, and I will be right as rain.” His eyes flutter shut, only to fly open again. “Did they agree?”

“Who?”

“Lady Lilith. Did she - did she agree to have the vhampyrs join us?”

“She did…” Raine’s words are careful, slow. “We had quite the discussion while you were close to death.”

“Sounds enlightening; my apologies for missing it. What did she say?”

“She said you taught her a lot about humans.”

“Hmmm… like that we don’t drink blood?”

“Among other things. She said that if you personally go to inform them of the battle, their forces will join.”

“Couldn’t someone else go? Mal? He would love the trip, I’m sure.”

“She specifically requested you. She seemed to like you.”

He quirks a shoulder. “I didn’t know what to expect of the vhampyrs. They seemed… lonely.”

“She said you told her stories.”

“I did.” He chuckles at that. “She kept trying to read my mind. And you know how I like my secrets.”

“She said you told of the mercenaries of Lord Kelvin Gillbottle.” A sad smile plays on her lips. “Aerin? Did you truly believe I would leave you?”

“What do you mean? No! Not really. “

“What do you mean, not really?”

“I guess - the longer it was there, the harder it was to tell the difference between what was real and what was not. But I knew, in my heart, I knew you would come for me.”

“Then… why is that not the story you told her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“She said that, every night, you would tell her the story of us meeting in the Deadwood. And that, in every telling, the mercenaries realized the princes were evil and tortured them. Killed one in cold blood. And I locked the other away with the vhampyrs, never to be freed, as revenge for his disloyalty.”

He blinks. “That’s not how I said the story ended.” He tries to sit up, but it is futile until Raine slides her arm around him, a line of solid strength and care propping him up.

“That’s what she told me.”

“That trickster… Raine, that’s not the ending I made up.”

Her eyes, large and bright in sunshine, bore into his. “Then how did you end the tale?”

“I said…” He breaks off with another cough and she hands him a waterskin; the liquid is mercifully cool on his throat. “I said that the mercenaries met two evil princes in the forest.”

“Aerin, that’s not…”

“Shhh, it’s my story. I said that the mercenaries met two evil princes in the forest. One died.” Raine’s face softens at this, but she doesn’t interrupt, so he continues. “The other realized the error of his ways. He- he fell in love with one of the mercenaries, the hero, and stayed by her side, forever, until the end of time.”

She bites her lip, eyes welling with unshed tears, and, just as Aerin moves to apologize, she nods. “Yes. That is exactly how the story ends.”

[weministertomonsters]

Werefox (Harcourt) x human female reader ~ part 1

You're twelve when you hear your mother yelling outside.

"Get out!"

You scamper into the backyard to see her shooing the scrawniest werefox you've ever seen away from the chicken coop. He's got egg yolk clinging to his chin. His sunset orange ears are pinned to his head as he deftly dodges your mother's flailing dishcloth and leaps over the fence, disappearing into the brush.

"But Ma!" You wail, "he's cute and hungry!"

"Such creatures are a pestilence. Besides, dear, you can't keep him as a pet. He'll grow just as big as you, and he's no true animal."

You pout for the rest of the week, but she doesn't budge, like any sensible mother. The little werefox had a den nearby, you figure, so you set out to find it, taking two eggs from the coop. His den isn't hard to find. You've seen fox dens before he looks like he hasn't learned how to create a proper and safe den. As you step on the crunchy leaves surrounding his home, his head pops out of his den like a jack-in-the-box and he stares at you.

"Hello," you say, tromping forward without much thought to your safety. "I brought you eggs!"

He cocks his head to the side. You put the eggs on a leaf close to him and watch him snap them up, crunching on the shells and licking his lips.

"Can you speak?" You ask him next.

He watched you silently, ears swiveling. You glimpse a worn, scruffy collar around his neck and reach out to hold the tag. He squirms and shivers, but lets you have a look.

"Harcourt? That's such a fancy name," you laugh.

"I was a circus pet," he blurts out, eyes widening like he can't believe he just spoke. "I-I ran away!"

"Well, nice to meet you," you say and give him a big hug, breathing in the dusty scent of his fur. "We're going to be best friends!"

So, that's how you made your unlikely friend. Nine years later, he's still runty and lanky, although he's almost as tall as you if he stands. You're still very good friends, even if he is a stubborn little shit and refuses to leave his den most of the time.

"I'm going to stop bringing you food," you tease one hazy afternoon as you watch him scarf down the ham and cheese sandwich you brought him.

"Then I'll steal your eggs," he says, licking his muzzle and then licking the taste of ham from your fingers, his sharp teeth nipping lightly at your skin.

"You already do that. You're lucky the hens are laying a surplus, otherwise, my mother would notice."

"I trade for the eggs though," he protests.

"The baskets of fruit that appear on our doorstep? I'm pretty sure you steal from the neighbor's orchard," you snicker.

He narrows his golden eyes at you and huffs.

"Never mind me, stolen fruit tastes sweeter." You tuck up your skirts and get on your hands and knees and crawl into his den uninvited, because you know he won't mind. "Oh, you enlarged it! And you took my advice and got some bedding- is that my spare quilt?!"

"Stop fussing already," he grumbles, squeezing in after you. "You don't need it. It gets cold out here."

"But you could have asked. Wait a second... No wonder I couldn't find these panties. You took these two!"

You burst into laughter and nudge him playfully with your foot. "You didn't even try to hide them. Shameless."

"You're not mad?" Harcourt curls up in a ball and tucks his nose into his tail, peering at you.

"No, but why did you take them?"

"They smelled good and they make me feel funny."

You slap a hand over your face. "Oh my god, it's almost like you grew up in the wild by yourself... Oh right, you did."

"What? Did I say something wrong?" He asks, perking his head up.

"Er, so what do you do with my panties? Just drape them over your nose and go to sleep?"

"First I chew on them."

"So I can see," you raise your eyebrows at the holes in your undergarments and drop them on the ground.

"I think there's something you're not telling me," Harcourt says.

"Definitely. You'll figure it out when your first mating season comes around," you reply and lie back against the quilt, staring up at the dirt ceiling.

A couple of roots are bared to the gaze. You learned long ago that it was best to keep your eyes closed in his den, otherwise, you'd get dirt in your eyes. You close your eyes now and Harcourt scoots closer, plopping his head on your stomach. You run your fingers through his fur, which is always silky now thanks to the brush you gifted him.

"Do humans have a mating season too?" He asks.

"Not really. But we are expected to pair off with another human and have babies. My mom has been talking about it since I turned eighteen. She's worried that I'm getting too old."

"Are you?" Harcourt sniffs. "You smell young to me."

"I have no idea what you mean, silly. I'm only twenty-one and I think there's plenty of time yet. I don't fancy any of the men in town because they're forceful with what they want. At this point, I need a stick to beat them off with."

"I can guard you," Harcourt offers.

"Oh no, don't do that. If you think my mother is bad, then you're not prepared for the men in town. Some of them might try to shoot you."

"Hmmm, it's why I stay away from humans," Harcourt murmurs sleepily. "They all want to shoot me or cage me up."

"A pity," you murmur back.

You end up dozing off with your hand still in his fur. Harcourt sleeps like he's still a kit, draping his body over you, then curling up at your side, and then nuzzling into his tail, constantly moving. You think nothing of it until you're completely woken up by his tongue rasping over your skin.

"Oi, I took a bath this week. I don't need another one," you grumble sleepily.

He purrs deep in his throat and licks your arm again, his body caged around you like he's a motherly cat.

"Hey," you cry in proper protest as he moves on to your hair. "Stop it."

"You always smell so nice," he purrs. "You smell nicer than your panties."

You huff out a laugh. "You're clueless, you overgrown fox-child. Release me, if I don't head home now, my mother will send someone to find me."

"Fine," he grumbles. "Don't take so long to visit next time."

"I won't," you promise as you scramble out of his den, shaking leaves and dirt out of your hair and clothes.

You look frightfully dirty and sneak back to your house and up the stairs to change before your mother catches you. For the next few days, you're incredibly busy. The harvest is in and all your time is spent preserving, canning, salting, drying, and pickling. You leave a few gifts tucked in a secret corner of the coop for Harcourt. The nights are becoming warm and the crickets sing. You wonder when the mating season begins for foxes, and when you'll see any more of them.

You know they're there, but they just don't live so close to human towns. In that way, Harcourt is a bit of an anomaly.

The next morning, you're taking in the morning eggs when you notice something strange. The chickens are milling around their coop, staring at something underneath. You crouch down to have a look and come face to face with a slender female werefox. She's crammed into the tiny space, which doesn't look very comfortable.

"Hi," you say. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know," she replies, and with a grunt of effort, she crawls out. "I was hiding from a male. I did not want to mate with him and he chased me all the way here. He did not dare to come close to the house so I have been hiding here until he goes away."

She lifts her muzzle and sniffs the air. "He is gone now," she says in satisfaction.

Her golden eyes fall on you and she says,

"I do not scare you, human?"

"No, I have a werefox friend who lives nearby."

"Yes, the lonely one. I have scented him around your house," she says. "He must like you to guard your property like this."

"I guess," you smile and glance back at your house. "I can't promise my mother will be happy to see you here, though."

"I need a place to sleep and a reliable male to den with. This fox friend of yours, he is good?" She asks.

"I would say so, yes."

"Then take me to him," she says, placing the soft pads of her paws against your arm and squeezing. "I would rather choose a male than be forced to pick one."

"I understand how you feel. Let me put the eggs away, then I'll join you."

Together you take the secluded path through the forest. Your new werefox acquaintance flits around you like a butterfly, listening for danger and cocking her head to the sound of rabbits or squirrels. You've never seen a female werefox before and you can't help looking at her breasts. The six of them are much more obvious than they would be on a male werefox, with rosy pronounced nipples like she's already had a litter or two.

When you get close to Harcourt's den, she bumps into you and stops you with a paw on your arm.

"Be aware he is in a rut," she says. "He may bite us and chase us."

"This is his first one," you say. "Does that make it any better?"

"No," she said. "He might not even realize who you are. He will want to mate with you."

"But that's what you're here for," you say quickly. "Let me look at him."

"I will wait." She grabs your cheeks and holds your face still, rubbing her muzzle against your neck and giving you a little lick. "I cannot promise what he will do to you when he scents me on your skin," she says. "Be cautious."

You trudge towards the den and stop a few feet away from the entrance.

"Harcourt?" You call out.

The growl you receive in response is immediate and none too friendly.

"Someone is in a mood," you mumble.

You crouch and crawl into the den, praying he doesn't bite your face off. Harcourt is curled up in an aggravated ball, his nose pushed into his fluffy tail for comfort. He glares at you.

"Are you okay?" You ask, looking him over.

He looks scrawnier than usual like he hasn't been hunting.

"No," he growls. "You didn't come and visit me."

"I'm sorry, there's been so much work to do in the house that I couldn't find any time to steal away," you sigh. "You didn't come for any of the gifts I left you."

"I can't. I'm miserable," Harcourt huffs. "I'm hot all over and I'm leaking everywhere and I've wanted to bite you and do things I cannot fathom. I was afraid I'd hurt you."

"Oh," you smile. "You're precious."

"I don't know what is happening to me!" He snaps, his ears pinning back. "And I ask that you leave me be until I am myself again."

"I can't do that," you say. "If you don't get any help you're going to be like this for a long time."

Harcourt blinks and uncurls his slender body, tail whisking against the quilt.

"You mean, it's never going away?"

He looks mournfully down at himself, at his pink cock that has poked out of its sheath and rubs against his belly, plastering the fur there with precum.

"No," he whispers. "But I can't stay like this! I can't sleep, I can't hunt, I can't even groom myself properly because it hurts."

He turns to look at you with dilated pupils. "You have to help me," he whimpers.

Before you can answer, the female werefox crawls into the den, and Harcourt freaks out, hissing and ducking behind you.

"Woah, calm down, she's with me," you say.

"I come in peace, little one," she says. "You're much younger than I thought you would be. Inexperienced. My name is Nitaki."

She looks around the den and wrinkles her muzzle.

"Get out of my den," Harcourt huffs. "Leave me alone."

She crawls forward, brushing her muzzle against your cheek. "The human is a friend to you?" She hums.

"She's mine," he snaps.

"Um," you begin, but neither of them pays attention to you as they face each other with wrinkled noses and bared teeth.

Nitaki stares him down imperiously until he gives up and looks away with a whimper. Whining your name, he attempts to scoot back to your side, but she blocks him off.

"I want only one thing from you. To end this cycle of heat."

"I-I don't know how," Harcourt says anxiously, nostrils flaring as he takes in the cacophony of scents from both females, so different and yet so alike.

It makes him disoriented and dizzy.

"I will teach you," she says, prowling closer.

He leans away, even snapping when she gets too close. Frustrated at his rejection, she spins around and locks her eyes on you.

"It is your human female you truly want, is it not?"

Harcourt's pupils widen more than you had thought they could. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his sides heave.

"Yes..." He says.

"Um, that's not-" You begin, but Nitaki flicks her ears and holds out a paw to you.

"Join us," she urges. "And we can all get what we want."

"But I..."

"Please?" Harcourt says, his claws digging into the quilt as his cock throbs against his belly. "I want you."

You're still hesitating when Nitaki pounces on Harcourt, knocking him onto his back. He growls and tries to push her off. But the Nitaki is stronger than him, a true alpha female. She keeps him down and ignores his squirming, leaning down and placing her teeth around his neck. He goes still immediately and his eyes roll wildly as he whimpers.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"I want him to submit to me," she mumbles against his fur. "I do not have patience for teaching."

Once she's satisfied that Harcourt is subdued, she rolls off of him and gets on her hands and knees, displaying herself for him. Perhaps her pheromones finally penetrate his dumb skull or he finally realizes what he's meant to do. Either way, he crawls up to her, sniffing the air. He growls and bares his teeth, fumbling at her hips. She flicks her tail out of the way and shuffles her knees open wider, waiting.

You can see how wet she is.

"Human, help him," Nitaki commands. "Are we shall be here for the rest of the day."

Silently, you move over. Harcourt jumps a mile when you take his cock in your hand. It's different from a man's, pink and slippery and with a slightly flared head. It looks huge, throbbing menacingly in your palm. Harcourt whimpers, and his body trembles. You guide him to the female werewolf and feel her lubrication wet your fingers as you press him in.

It doesn't go exactly as you had imagined. Nitaki is content to drive her hips against him and does most of the work while he shivers and clutches her hips. When he cums, it startles him most of all. He tries to pull out, but she grabs his paws and pulls him against her back, unrelenting. He gives up and leans heavily against her, panting.

Finally, she pulls away and shakes herself off. Harcourt slumps onto the quilt, dazed. His cock is still throbbing and leaking cum lazily.

"Good luck with your little runt," Nitaki says to you. "I have what I needed."

With that, she scrambles out of the den and leaves the two of you to your own devices.

"Harcourt? Are you okay?" You lean over him.

His eyes open and he grunts. "I want to do it again," he says. "But with you this time."

─────────────── · · · · ✦

So stressed right now, ngl. Reblog/like if you want me to write part two of this crazy shit!

[creamiesstoryconer]

Yandere Harpy x Reader Part 1

Chance Encounter

I ended up rewriting this whole chapter and reusing some of the content from the teaser I am so sorry!

This is my OC I'll probably post some more info about him at a later date and some world building stuff!

Word count: 1.5K

Total reading length: 12+ Minutes

Requests:Open!

TW:Blood and fighting

Baskets woven of fresh twine and twig, sitting on the soft palate of green crumpled underneath its own weight. Stacked high with the long forgotten labours of yesterday, fruits stained with the dew of early sun and ripened with the bitter winds of the night. 

Air crisp, smoking as you exhale, the condensate rising - dancing as it allows itself to be carried away by the senseless wind of the day. Gentle nipping of one's flesh, all warm bodies fall victim to the spring morn.

Haze settled in the distance, creating a golden sea that is bound to the floor. Almost a pure white light within the sky paints an ombre from deep greys and sea blues to a dusty hue.

Gravel path under foot, leading to rustic wall a deteriorating fence, scrapes and rolls each step taken. Tiny pebble tumbling down path, momentum faster than you can keep up with. A gentle smile nestled snugly upon your face. 

The start of spring, a true new year here. 

Following small path embed into ground, leading to a  patch of heaven. Plot of land, on the edge of the garden packed with love. Vibrant colours embraced alongside one another, roots embed into soft browns, out of sight yet still make themselves known. 

The scent as one passes by is catched in the breeze, pine that mutes the undertones of lavender. A refreshing scent against the early damp morning air.

Finger brush against aged wood, a gate whom had lived many a storm, shown upon the peeling of its face Overgrowth of ivy that had cast its grip upon the barrier. Ridges in the warping material cling to the moist air, the faint feeling lingers upon your skin as you pass yourself through. 

Into the arching corridor of nature that leads to the woods,  a path that is no longer rock, nor even dried mud. A long neglected walkway that mother earth had taken back for herself, tall grass flattened, a trace that you had been here just days ago. 

Trees hand in hand enclose the pathway, a canopy of dampened greens blocking out the sea of light that lay just above this seemingly separate part of the world.

Isolated and almost silent, it seems that time has grown stagnant. Further foot trod into the canopy walk, the gentle russell of leaves brushing against each other. The first songs of birds drowned out what little was not natural to mother Earth herself. High chirps and low croaks of frogs that called home to the rushing river just out of sight.

Flickering breaks in thick trunks that stud tall and proud, give opening to a flash of water that follows down hill. Cold clashes against stones that  leaves speckled clear upon plants that rooted themselves in the sloping waters. 

The natural web of nature, adhering to the splashes left by the waters. The transparent pearls that adorn exquisitely plumped ropes. glimpses of sunlight peeking through the thick foliage, its warm, golden light illuminating everything underneath.

Further onto ground you continue, colours finally spring to life, a refreshing taste to the repetitive greens and browns that had painted the day so far. Bunches of flowers finally make the canopy walk look bright, overhead gaps finally form allowing for break from dampened light.

A bit further up the overgrown trail you are familiar with, an annual springtime ritual. To make a sacrifice, to hope for world harmony, to continue a titration you have become tired of. Children should not be terrified of the customs and stories of the elderly; they are nothing more than fairy tales. 

At the opening's edge, feet stiffened as the deep green canopy of the trees gave way to a torrent of gold. Warm on the skin and a striking contrast to the morning breeze, the honey-coloured light completely engulfs the clearing. 

A few seconds it takes for your eyes to adjust. To be able to see a sea Of Clashing colours festival seemingly brought together by nature.Clashing smells of floral fight to enveloppe your nostrils. 

 Blues and pinks cramped by one another, twisting and fighting, reaching for the sea of light that washed over the bed of natural beauty. Delicate petals, untouched, pure.  Embodiment of times untouching hands where humans are not. 

Though at the moment feet had frozen, they had begun to move once more. The harsh cut out in the sea of purity, a feeling that causes legs to move upon their own.

A splatter of ugly red, tainting once faultless blossoms. A mark of impurity of ingrace. 

Flattening of the flower bed, a sin upon Mother Nature's Beauty, ones core told them to investigate. 

Your steps are cloaked by the cushion on greens and vibrance, Edging closer and closer to the flat  patch. In the air a metallic stench rises, the rusted colour of crimson upon translucent petals morphs from speckles to harsh thrashes. 

A trail leading to it…

Eyes glancing upon it, at first tanned skin, human. Deeply kissed by the sun, broad chest heaving. His warm breath clashing with frigid air that still plagued the thicket, a gutterel  wiring escaping from his body. 

A lingering look for too long, the source of what defiled the flowers around the laid body. A piercing arrow, through his shoulder. It’s deep oak and shaft crowned with it’s flesh wound. 

As if second nature, your fingertips reached forward, to aid or  to provide comfort you do not know. Softened Digits that grazed upon taunt skin, one exposed to the elements seemingly for a lifetime. 

Gaze focused upon the stranger's face for a reaction, though his features obscured by a mess of locks, a mixture of braids and tatters.

Then a hint of gold made itself  known through the nest of chestnut that hid most of the beings' identifying features. 

Time is still for only that moment. Only for a moment …

A blur and a impact,

The faint memory of something sharp around your waist before a harsh impact to one's back.

The coarse texture of dried bark entangled in once soft locks of hair. Throbbing, building a deafening silence is what over stimulates the nerves. Soothing warmth trickling down your neck, tracing itself past your crook. Allowing for a bud of red to flow and root itself onto once pristine white clothing. Now defiled with browns and quickly darkening crimsons. 

The rising of your chest like hard labour, air having been stolen from your lungs. Hoarse gasps replace a steady rhythm that was once there. Drying your mouth as a once cared for body folds in upon itself. 

Ringing in your ears causes one's head to spin. To not focus is to not be able to see. 

Blurs of greens, a blue perhaps the sky. Golden shines for a moment. Then the sight of flesh. 

Flesh unclothed, blotches of maroon identifiable upon the sun kissed skin. A guttural scream escapes your lips, ripping through your vocal cords, straining already fatigued muscle despite no fight being given. 

Cheeks, red as puffed eyes strained to stay open, salty water - your own tears-  sullying your face. Teeth bared as saliva bubbles and leaks from the corner of your mouth.  Instinct forces your disorientated body to stay awake.

Fingers tangled within a sickenly soft plumage of feathers. Almost comforting to touch under dirt stuffed nails.

Air that was once almost refreshing to the lungs now reeks of desperation and fear. Tawng of metallic lingering, your own blood that was long dried and flaking. A dried river of rusty colour liquid fashioned from your own wound, wrapping around your neck like a macabre necklace. 

It’s animalistic eyes boaring into you, pupils blown to unnatural size. Tilting its head, forcing itself to envelope your sight. It’s chest rumbling, trilling… studying.

Hands still entangled with the red feathers, weakened digits clasp desperately. Unable to keep your head straight for much longer, a final fight escapes your limps. Harsh, violent yanking down upon plumage in hand. 

Pure red decorating your hands and the floor below. Feathers flown, taken from the scene of pure instinct by the gentle winds.

Ringing in your ears accompanied with an unworldly screech, piercing a cry that would shatter one's heart .

 All within a moment a peaceful day ended with your hands painted in red , head once again snapped into wood. Before the shuddering that was your world goes black within a moment. 

Yet body still feels the dragging across the field of mother earth's patch of hidden gold.

[burst-of-iridescent]

“But we were something, don’t you think so? Roaring 20s, tossing pennies in the pool. And if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you…”

- The 1, Taylor Swift

Katara is still waiting for an answer.

Zuko clears his throat and gives it back to her, forcing a smile that feels too-empty, like a painted curve on a hollow mask. Katara doesn’t seem to notice, though. She’s grinning at Zuko, and though more than a decade has passed since they were children laughing in the courtyard of an abandoned summer home, her smile has never lost its joyous, youthful exuberance.

“It looks great.” The words burn on the way out, like lava pouring down his throat. “He’ll love it.”

Her nose wrinkles as she looks down at it. “It’s not how it’s traditionally done, though, a woman giving it to the man-”

“When have you ever cared about tradition?”

Katara laughs, bright and cheerful and just a little mischievous, and Zuko once again thinks of the girl on an Ember Island beach, infinite hope and possibility shining in her eyes. The wishes they had sparked within him in turn, the longing he had nestled into his heart and carried with him every day of his life since, the miracle he should’ve known would be too much to ask for.

“He’ll love it, Katara,” Zuko assures her, and hopes she can’t hear the agony in his voice. “He’ll love anything you give him. He worships you.”

Something flickers across her face then, something that doesn’t entirely match the cheery topaz of the stone that glimmers between her fingers. It’s gone before he can catch it though, wiped away by a tender fondness that makes her face light up.

In the soft light of the moon, she looks so beautiful that it takes everything he has not to fall to his knees and beg her to stay.

Foolish boy, his father’s blood whispers to him, and the edges of his blackened, bitter heart curl up and shrivel like the withered leaves of a dying plant. She loves the Avatar. What could you possibly have to offer, in comparison?

“You really think so?” Katara asks.

Zuko clears his throat. “I know so.”

Katara beams impossibly bright, and then her slender arms are around his neck and her body is pressed against his.

He returns it without hesitation, even though his spiked shoulder plates wedge between them and his robes are drowning him and something in the core of his heart feels like it’s cracking open, splintering, cleaving him apart from the inside out.

He clings to her fiercely, through the damage that even her healing hands will never be able to fix, breathes in the lavender scent of her hair and tries to memorize the precise feel of her in his arms. This is all he will ever have, all that remains to him: a few small pieces of her to tide him through the long, lonely years to come.

She pulls back, and for a second - just a second - he thinks her eyes glimmer, a wet shine that belongs to something other than starlight. But then she blinks and it’s gone, replaced by the perfect picture of incandescent happiness, and he’s left with only the hazy sheen of hopeless wanting, a delusion borne of his own desperate imagination.

Katara’s eyes search his face. “You’ll come, won’t you?” she asks. “Aang will want you there.”

“Of course,” Zuko says, and the next words taste like rust and salt on his tongue. “I wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world.”

He holds it together that night, and the next morning, through the end of the peace summit, through seeing every one of his friends off. He holds it together as he walks numbly through the courtyard where he bled and burned for her, through the rooms she once filled with warmth, to the study he now occupies alone. He holds it together until he finds the bundle of letters at the furthest corner of his desk drawer, dusty now after so many years in the dark, and unfurls the most yellowed and crumpled of them all.

He spends the night on the floor, amidst the ruins of his heart and the letters strewn like autumn leaves around him, and watches each of them go up in smoke.

Katara marries Aang amidst stone and silence, in the way of the Air Nomads, wind whistling through the temple around them. It is only Zuko’s head that reverberates with noise, singing the discordant lullaby of words long since turned to ash.

(Katara, the letter begins, in the eager hand of a 16-year-old boy who has not yet learned how to give up dreaming.

I think I’m in love with you…)

[nooowestayandgetcaught]

Fic: "Found Family"

read on AO3

Fandom: The Last of Us (Show & Video Game)

Rating: T (for explicit language)

Summary: "I can't believe you're in prison."

@flashfictionfridayofficial

"I can't believe you're in prison."

Joel doesn't say anything at first, pacing the huge man-made cell inside the old bank. This seems sturdy. It could hold a fair few folks.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she stubbornly insists, arms crossed.

"It's more like a… timeout… than anythin'."

After a long moment, Ellie's face scrunches. "What's a timeout?" she blurts, and Joel forces down a smile. No, he's not exactly pleased.

"Sometimes our actions have consequences, and we gotta take 'em. I coulda held my anger a little more tightly. But I didn't."

He sits himself on the dusty floor, at ease.

Joel's fist throbs. The pain's good. Satisfying, almost.

"I don't even know what he said," Ellie mumbles.

Joel watches her tap her fingers anxiously against a snowy window. Ellie doesn't like distance. It's always been like since they found each other. But they're not exactly separated from each other like this.

It's only a cell.

"You look at me, Ellie," he drawls, meeting her eyes when a frowning Ellie uncrosses her arms. "Come over here and listen to what I say."

"Why am I the one getting a lecture?"

"Ellie, right now," Joel says, much more sternly.

When she's in reach, one of his hands goes firm on hers. Joel watches as the tension lifts off Ellie's shoulders. It's how it should be.

Jackson decided to celebrate someone's birthday. A dance in the cleared-out mess hall. Noise kept to a minimum, as well as lights and utilities. Joel stuck to Tommy for most of the night, since Maria went to bed early with a headache, and kept an eye on Ellie.

She warmed up to the other kids, but mostly the one.

A taller girl with dark eyes and dark hair. Kinda shy.

"There ain't nothin' wrong with you. Not one bit of you," Joel tells her, emphasizing this with a slight shake of their hands.

Ellie's throat visibly clenches.

"Now I want you to say it back to me," he orders.

"Um…"

"Say it and you mean it. Because it's the truth."

"There's… nothing wrong with me," Ellie mumbles, awkwardly looking down and up. He examines her, brushing off snow clinging to her.

"That's right. You can kiss as many other little girls you want and nobody… nobody says anythin'," Joel says like it's a matter of fact. Because it is. "Or so help me, I will put them in their rightful place."

Ellie's mouth twitches up. "In a dirt bed?"

"In a dirt bed," Joel repeats solemnly, feeling her hand squeeze hard.

"Why isn't that asshole in here? He punched back."

"That would be because Mister Jones is laid up in the infirmary. With a concussion," Tommy announces, stepping inside the old bank.

He jingles the keys, grinning like a shithead.

Joel shakes his head.

"You're free to go, big bro."

"Glad you're enjoyin' this…" Joel softly retorts.

Tommy chuckles, unlocking the cell.

"You kidding me? All the times you had to get me out of jail?" he quips, wrenching the door. "It's like another Christmas."

He falls aside when Ellie bursts through, grabbing onto Joel's coat and keeping near his side. She glares a little at Tommy, Ellie's cheek digging up against the worn, scruffy material. At the show of protectiveness, Joel wraps an arm around her.

"We're gonna head on out," Joel says, nodding.

*

The snow falls harder. Everything's damn cold.

He sees Tommy disappearing into the mess hall, but Joel doesn't follow, nudging a confused Ellie. "Go back in. You were havin' a good time. There's no reason you shouldn't be."

Ellie waves a hand, dismissive.

"Ss'okay. Dina invited me to sit with her at breakfast. Besides…" She beams mischievously, smiling. "Who's gonna tuck you in, old man?"

Joel sighs, feeling Ellie's arm wrapping around his on her.

"Alright, smart mouth," he mutters.

[shroomtime00]

Always and Forever (hunter x reader)

You descend down the staircase, and with each step the stairs creak and groan. You scrunch up your nose, how can a staircase be this noisy?

You jump down the last remaining steps, “And they stick the landing!” you make a gymnast’s salute, like the one that lady did in the metal box in the living room. Grinning to yourself you glanced around, taking in the basement-turned-bedroom. 

It’s rather dusty, the musky smell filling your lungs. It must haven’t been used for a while, not until you and the others…

You shake your head, not wanting to finish that thought. Now wasn’t time to be worried or stressed. 

Cardboard boxes piled corners and littered the ground, with words like, ‘Luz’s costumes’, or ‘Manny’s cosplay 2008’ scribbled hastily in black ink. The fairy lights, which hung from every corner of the wall and every pole in sight, paint the room a warm white shade. 

You now look to the two sleeping areas in the middle. The couch, which you presumed was where Gus slept, was unmade and rather messy, with the blanket sprawled across the couch and pillows everywhere. The sleeping bag, however, was neat and tidy, without a crease in the covers. 

“Done examining me and Gus’s room?” The cocky, scratchy voice cuts into the silence, and you perk up at such a sound. 

Quickly you whip your head to where it had come from. Hunter, who now was smirking triumphantly because he had properly startled you, was sitting behind a table with the…uh, sewing device in front of him. You were a little cautious of the gizmo, seeing as it pricked you when you put your finger in the needle contraption the first time you tried repairing a towel! Honestly, you even wondered why Hunter spent so much time with such a thing. 

Said blonde now runs his fingers through his newly cut hair. “What are you even looking for? The Titan’s lost gold or something?”

You roll your eyes at the reference of a child’s tale back in the demon realm, but you stride to Hunter and plop yourself down in his chair, “What are you doing, then?”

He gestures to the denim jeans inside the mouth of the device, “I’m repairing Gus’s jeans!” he replies cheerfully, “They got ripped when Vee was teaching him those….uh, roller skating tricks?” he shakes his head as he begins the device, its whirring sound making his voice a little  muffled, “I’ll never get the point of it.”

“The point is to have fun!” you laugh, “What, do you not know what that is?”

He stops the machine to give you a pointed look, “I know what fun is!” his voice cracks when he says ‘what’, and you chuckle at his face, with reddened embarrassment.

He raises an eyebrow when he recovers, “Really? Sticking wheels on your feet and rolling around, with the very high risk of falling and getting a broken nose counts as, ‘fun’?”

“Just admit you’re scared of it, Hunter.”

“Wha – I am NOT scared of roller skating!” he utters a little too loudly, and now you tilt your head sideways, your smirk telling him he shouldn’t have said anything, “Oh, really? Then how come you were clinging onto my sweater and demanding I won’t let go of your hand?” you accuse.

“I — Uh, I was just trying to make you feel better about your poor skating skills!” he counters, “And anyways, I saw Luz and Amity holding hands while they were skating, are we not allowed to do that?”

You flush, because he doesn’t realize what he’s said. Amity and Luz were holding hands because they were dating. 

But…weren’t you and Hunter dating too?

You had forgotten about that! Yes, yes you were. Ever since a week ago, you and him had been, er, going out, as one could say. It still surprises you every time you remember. 

With your lack of words he decides he’s won, so Hunter turns his attention back to the sewing device.  His hands move against the denim as the thread makes a trail against the blue fabric. 

You have to admit, it’s kinda mesmerizing. The way his hands work, moving the fabric higher and higher, the needle stitching the thread by itself. You can’t quite wrap your mind around how technologically advanced humans have become. Maybe having no magic pushed them further to create better things?

You glance back at your frie — your boyfriend. He’s humming an idle tune as he works, reminding you of that one movie with the yellow and blue dressed princess who talked to animals and cleaned a stranger’s house Luz had showed you during one of the movie nights. 

Hunter’s wearing a red shirt with some triangle red bird with very dark eyebrows etched down, with its beak in a frown. He’s wearing sweatpants with that bat superhero, and his pink bunny slippers hit on the ground as he taps them. With the tapping and humming, it looks like he’s hosting his very own synchronized dance. 

“Aaand done!” he says finally, sunnily as he lifts up the newly repaired jeans, with a grin that pictures his tooth gap perfectly, “So? Whaddya think?”

You tilt your head. The brightly bubblegum colored thread certainly…added a pop of color to the pants. 

“It’s colorful.” you decide finally. Hunter’s smile only seems to brighten more, “Thanks! For a beginner I think I’m not too shabby, personally!” he puts down the jeans and runs his fingers down the stitches of pink, beaming at his work. 

You can’t help it as a soft smile upturns your lips. Why was his smile so pretty? 

You hadn’t seen much of that smile in the Boiling Isles, where he was always frowning or angry or stressed. 

Hunter’s gone through so much. From being a scout at age eleven to becoming the golden guard at age fourteen, to then finding out his life was built upon a tower of lies, to then finally becoming him. Just Hunter. 

And you’re proud of him. 

You put your hand to his shoulder, just smiling at the newly-fixed jeans with pops of pink then saying quietly, “You did great Hunter. I’m so proud of you.”

You don’t get a response for a while, so you tear your eyes away from the pants and look up curiously at him. 

Alarm pierces your chest as you can see his fingers tremble on the pants, so slight yet so noticeable, and put them down. You dart your eyes up, and his own magenta ones are blurry and unfocused. 

Immediately you scoot closer to him, bringing a hand up to mop the tears away with your sleeve, “W-why’re you crying? Did I do something wrong? Did I say something?” you panic. 

Hunter laughs, coming out more of a breath than a chuckle as his scarred hand touches yours. When he turns his head to graze his lips on your palm, you feel his blonde curls move against your hand.

Heat spreads in your face as he clears his throat and begins, still a little raspy, “No, you didn’t say anything wrong, (reader).” he chuckles, “It’s just….I haven’t really heard those words come from anyone, much. You know, the emperor’s coven and their high expectations!” Now the tears begin to fall, slowly, “It was impossible to please Unc — emperor Belos.”

Your heart drops when he says that. He sniffles, “Sorry, this was stupid—”

His words are interrupted with your body clashing with his, you cradling one arm on his head and the other at his back. Your heart presses with his, and you can feel his muffled beating grow quicker.

Hunter stays frigid for a second, before he melts into the hug, leaning his head on your shoulder as he wraps his arms around your body. The warmth of it all encourages you to say what you want.

“I’m always going to be proud of you, Hunter,” you whisper softly against his hair, “Always and forever.”

No answer again, but you don’t need one. This says enough, more than enough, with your bodies intertwined with each other, sharing each other’s warmth. 

He doesn’t pull away, and neither do you for a bit. Because this is what he needs, and this is what you’ll give him. 

“Thank you.” he mumbles hoarsely, sniffling. You hold him tighter, squeezing his body. You hope he understands the message you’re giving him. 

That you won’t ever desert him, for as long as you can. That you’ll stay by his side. Always and forever. 

So that’s where you stay until the last of his tears end. And when you pull away, you’re grinning. 

“So, how about a sewing lesson?”

[jellyfishloveletterghosts]

I'd Sell My Soul To A Devil (To Bad What He Wants Is You)

Saturday Billy is running a little late for his trip to the library. He is running out of possible avenues there and seriously considering getting in touch with Murray. He is pretty sure that is going to be a big fucking headache, the man seems more than a little unhinged not to mention difficult to get a hold of.

Why can't this be easier? Why can’t he just wake up one morning with the answers? Why did Steve have to go and sacrifice himself leaving Billy behind?

Each day even with his goal in mind it is getting harder, at least with the bottle there was oblivion. Now it is just days of dusty research getting him nowhere followed by nightmare filled bouts of sleep.

It takes him what feels like an eternity to climb out of bed. The thing that really gets him going is when he glances to look at the little clock that survived his last outburst. Next to it propped up against it is the polaroid. It makes his heart clench, throat stinging as he reaches out and traces a finger over Steve’s jaw. He wants him back.

"The things I do for you." Billy mutters with one last look at the picture before forcing himself up out of bed. Despite his mood the sun is shining just the hint of a chill in the air, taking away from the sticky summer heat that has been clinging. They are going to have to turn the heat on in here soon, Billy is not sure it works. The air conditioning barely does.

Susan is home by the time he is ready for the day, Max still sleeping. Susan is already drinking, cracking a beer and smoking a cigarette on the couch. Billy cannot help but wonder if he looked the same every morning or was he worse? Mixing beer, liquor, weed and anything it did not take effort to get his hands on. Billy remembers the flier and wonders if Max left it out for Susan to find yet.

He grabs the keys up with a wave that is absent returned, startling when he opens the door to find Wayne standing outside, hand raised ready to knock, a tray of cinnamon rolls held in his other hand. “Morning Billy, how are you feeling?”

Read the Rest on Ao3

[argisthebulwark]

It was me who sent that ask about Erik. I like to share my thoughts but usually am too shy to do so off anon. So glad you liked it and agree! I am shaking your hand.

Boy is down so bad that you take down two bandit raids together and he's already planning out how he's gonna propose, LOL.

NICE! tbh i usually message people on anon too. even if we're mutuals. its is comforting to just say shit.

here's part one to this. it's sfw but there's mentions of a battle and related topics (blood, swords, etc)

Gazing across the plains Erik watches the Dragonborn wrench her sword free from the last bandit. She's wiping at her face and clambering through the bandit camp toward him and Erik's heart races. He's learning how intimidating she is during a fight; the smile he'd grown so used to gone and her eyes hardened, each swing of her sword meeting its mark. He never tires of watching her.

He's been with her for weeks and cannot hide his feelings. Each step she takes toward him still leaves his palms sweaty, her easy smile wiping away all fear. He knows that he is safe with her. They'd been outnumbered tenfold but there was no fear with the Dragonborn at his side.

"You're hurt!" She's rushing closer, hands clapping over the wound in his shoulder. It stings a little but is nothing compared to the gash in her side.

"You're hurt worse." Mimicking her action Erik presses a hand to the slash in her leathers. Her laugh seems so out of place surrounded by gore and broken blades but it's all he needs to remain standing. The Dragonborn digs around in her pack, withdrawing a glass bottle from its depths.

"Health potion." She explains and takes a hearty drink before offering the bottle to Erik. It doesn't taste great but he can feel the magic tingling under his skin and stitching his skin back together. The Dragonborn's hands remain on him and he feels a tad woozy but refuses to miss a moment with her.

"It's enough to get us back to town." She explains but all he can see is the gleam of healing magic on her lips. Her hand is so warm and he's still holding her waist. They've been dancing around each other since that first night - flirty but never committing, afraid to take the first step or move past fleeting touches.

It's so easy to pull her closer. The Dragonborn's hands slide up his armor and he brushes stray hair out of her face. His heart is hammering away in his chest when the Dragonborn finally stands up on her toes to kiss him.

Perhaps it's a spike of bravery from the battle or the potion that allows Erik to draw her even closer. His kiss is clumsy but he clings to her, elated by the knowledge that he loves her. She's giggling against his lips and he's sure she knows how easily he'd become wrapped around her finger.

He knew there was much more to learn but watching her fight, learning to maneuver in his new armor and wielding a broadsword she'd dragged out of a dusty display case, spending nights watching the firelight play across her face, he would never stop craving more of her. The flicker of rage he'd seen only during battle was gone when he met her eyes again, pleased to see her cheeks flushed.

Erik had once heard from a mercenary that your life flashes in your eyes in the moments before death, but what of love? He can see it all laid out before him; following the Dragonborn to every corner of Nirn, falling irretrievably in love with her, purchasing an Amulet of Mara and meeting her in the temple to marry her. He sees his future in her eyes when the Dragonborn's thumb rubs over the scratch on his cheek.

"You look so serious." She comments, still pressed close to him. Erik keeps it to himself, the knowledge that he's going to marry her someday, and simply kisses the hand on his face.

"I'm in love with you." He finally answers and wipes a bit of blood from her cheek. "I think you've known that, though."

She's giggling again and Erik's already wondering how easy it will be to slip away from her for just a few moments. He knows that Fralia Gray-Mane often has rings in her stall, perhaps when the Dragonborn is replenishing at one of the shops he'll step out for some fresh air.

With her arm looped in his the Dragonborn leads him across the rolling hills. The packed dirt roads are empty when she drags him toward the hulking shadow of Whiterun. He hardly retains what she's saying to him about his stance or his grip on the sword, his mind already formulating the perfect time to propose to her.

[dragon--sage]

WIP Whenever

tagged by @fadedsweater FOREVER ago but i am just now feeling like i have a grip on this not-so-cute meet cute i have devised for my latest untitled WIP (modern au, parisy val royeaux, magical elements bc i can't restrain myself) that has taken up all my daydreams lately. ANYWAYS tl;dr here is a little peak behind the veil. thank you for tagging me sweater!!! ✨

i'm tagging anyone else who'd like to share something they're working on because i LOVE to see it, and appreciate being tagged but overthink and fret over who else to tag! :')

“You are Dalish,” Solas said, as Ellana stepped into the weak moonlight filtering through the windows, and he made out her vallaslin for the first time. The word, on his sharp and admittedly honeyed tongue, came just shy of an insult. His eyes raked over her face and a look of cool dismissal instantly fell over his own.

“What’s the matter, allergic to halla?” She quipped back, crossing her arms over her chest and quirking her head to the side.

“The Dalish are as children, clinging to false memories of a long-forgotten past,” He snapped immediately, the accusation so practiced it was as if he’d uttered this exact sentence several hundred times before.

Sweet Sylaise—what an insufferable know-it-all, she thought.

“Oh, but you know the truth, right?” Ellana countered—voice acidic, mocking.

The degree of condescension in her voice was a bit shocking, even to her.

(How much and how quickly she had been riled, how easy it had been for him…)

His brow quirked and he smirked at the challenge in her response, apparently amused by her consternation. She fought an epic and nigh impossible battle to keep her frustration from showing on her face.

“I have seen things they—you—have not,” He said simply, with a small shrug.

“Oh, well that clears everything up. Thank you for sharing your infinite wisdom, hahren.”

“Felassan!” Solas snapped, eyes cutting from Ellana to the Slow Arrow. Felassan, having been examining an old satin curtain that framed one of the room’s many windows between his pointer finger and thumb, abruptly dropped it, straightening to his full height.

“Hm?” Came his eventual reply, after he’d cleared his throat. The moonlight filtering through the dusty windowpane glinted starkly against his pale skin and flashed in his violet eyes.

“Are you trying to be funny?” Solas lapsed into elvish (perhaps this was a habit of his, when he was feeling particularly peevish).

“Well, if I am, I’m not trying hard enough, am I?” Felassan shot back with a glare. He stepped closer, motioning to Lavellan as he went. “I bring you our best potential recruit in ages and this is the thanks I get?” He had switched back to Common, though Ellana understood their elvish well enough.

(Yet even while she understood them, there was something distinctly different about the way they spoke it that struck her—the pronunciations and emphases different from any she’d come across, even having met elves from Dalish clans all over Thedas in her twenty-nine years.)

They moved closer and lowered their voices, and spoke so quickly she could no longer make out what they were saying.

Suddenly, Solas stepped away from Felassan and looked at her. His eyes darkened and narrowed, just for the slightest instant, and then he smirked.

“Fine,” He said coolly. “As a first test: you are welcome in our city safehouse.” A pause. A moment’s silence to appreciate that, of course, there would be a catch. “If you can find it.” His smugness indicated that he believed he’d just given Ellana an impossible task.

Felassan gave a loud, indignant huff of breath, and made as if to speak, but Solas pointed an accusatory finger in his direction.

“No help,” Said Solas, interrupting whatever Felassan was going to say.

The Slow Arrow rolled his eyes and waved him off.

Solas looked at Ellana again. “The only hint I’ll allow you is this: numbers here mean nothing, the crowd is lonely.”

He turned from the window and headed towards the door Felassan had pulled her through earlier, the one that led to the back stairwell. Just before he disappeared into the mess of props that obscured the exit from view, Solas half turned, looking back at them over his shoulder.

“It was a pleasure, Ellana.”

The finality in his voice made the statement sound like a less-than-fond farewell. He turned away and continued out of sight. Then, the sound of a door opening and closing echoed sharply through the room.

“Bastard,” Ellana breathed, glaring in the direction Solas had gone. Her eyes cut to Felassan, widening in frustration and disbelief.

“Talks like a villain from a period drama on the OPB and dresses like a disgraced librarian living full-time out of his van with three feral cats! And has the never to treat someone like that? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Once she began to complain it was difficult to stop.

Felassan shrugged, brows knitting apologetically, as if he had no idea how to answer the question.  

“If it makes you feel any better,” He said, after a long, slightly uncomfortable silence, “I actually think that could have gone much worse.”

[throatcoat]

//chapter four// //the window was so hot, i could not bare to touch it//

my tongue blistered as the scalding coffee clings to the back of my throat. my eyes are staring at the giant pacific northwest map on the wall, the one now stained with years of greasy finger tips painting lines on their imaginary routes. the mountain goat mural looks like it wants to tell me a secret.

the laundromat next door shakes the torn booth every now and then, the washers always packed too full. fingers trembling, i play with the purity ring on my swollen hand, nervous. there is a man making a call at the phone booth next to me, his spittle dribbles out as he raises a voice to a growl. i wonder who is on the other end, if her tongue is blistered too, if the goat has told her any of his secrets.

light from the window glints on his drool, the glare blinding me. i shut my eyes, fold my arms on the table and slam my face down. i want to cry but the desert is experiencing a drought. lifting my head up, i grab my phone, typing out a text. jeremy would know what to do. but i do not press send. ghosts can't answer back. part of me is buried in Minnesota and part of me wishes his cellphone was buried with him, too. before the shadows were burnt into the concrete, i was able to cry. now, i sit emotionless, i sit beside myself. above myself. i float, like a ghost, i float. the numbness never left, a comfort i suppose.

a first kiss is one of the memories that will never leave your mind.

there was a pebble stuck in my converse, and all i could think about was untying the double knot, and hitting the shoe against the dusty road until the annoying rock finally bounced out. i kept walking. the pebble dug in deeper in the sole of my foot. two miles back, i think part of me stayed in that trailer home. and i kept walking, stone embedded. all i wanted was to be in my bedroom, playing kirby. all i wanted was to feel like a kid again, but i knew i never would really feel the same ever again. not after what happened the hour before starting the trek so my mother would have no idea just how far i had walked. where i had gone. all i wanted now, was the comfort of a familiar place without the other ghosts already haunting me.

my lungs felt heavy with the dust as the junction loomed closer. 6 miles. my feet felt like concrete. my head felt like the lake i almost drowned in.

it was my fault. the rock in my shoe was a reminder. and all i wanted was to play kirby.

the summer between my freshman and sophomore year was a mix of empty rage, the burn of fireball, and grabbing fistfuls of grass just to feel something, anything at all. anymore, the soccer fields had felt more like home than the house that i grew up in. the one thing no one really acknowledges is the aftershocks of the bomb dropping, how it feels to be the baby shell shocked before you even speak your first word.

the consequences to my parent's new found fire fight was losing myself in my own war torn country.

when i was a little girl, the idea of being pure meant a great deal to me. born and raised southern baptist, my father gave me a small fire opal on a silver band on my 14th birthday. he told me how he saved himself for my mama, how much it meant to him that he could marry the woman who was his very first kiss. the idea then, felt like a fairy tale. now, the idea is a nightmare. mostly, i think my dad wanted me to just be loved, and actually loved. pure, or not.

i held my purity ring up like armor, protecting my soul from the dirty hands i could not wash off of me. virginal, i wanted my first anything to mean everything. but what was technically my first kiss tasted like burnt plastic and stale french fries. bud light and marijuana. that ring did not do a damn thing to stop it.

the boy saw me before i saw him. like rancid meat in the dumpster behind the high school, he was a blow fly seeking it's next meal. to me, he just looked like someone i could call a friend. astronomy class. several months before it all came out. i sat at the black table next to ash. she was talking about how a new song came out, how we should cut class and smoke even though her mom wanted to drug test her next week. the boy slid into the seat next to us. i knew him, barely. we had mutual friends, a similar friend group of the outcasts that no one else really paid any attention to. this group, I'd fallen in with after losing everyone else due to the storm I'd weathered previous. the anger, the darkness, the way they all saw the world, it felt familiar. the rage. prior, i had been a good girl, the smart one, the one who could answer any trivia. now, i smoked hand rolled cigarettes stuffed with shitty weed and drank vodka behind the bleachers, watching someone i knew in preschool huffing duster.

now, all i can recall is his eyes that were as black as his unwashed hair.

he was a junior that year, but older. i was a freshman. i was wearing a doctor who shirt. he complimented it and asked me about my favorite doctor. i pressed my back against the hard plastic science lab seats. i looked at him. he looked at me. four, i answered quietly. He asked to see what i was drawing. i was drawing a dragon. i did not want to show him. he grabbed it from me and kept it. he took so many things, but the drawing was the first to go. and mostly, i did not care. there was not much left of me, anyways.

ironically, we always think it won't happen to us. not again, never, it happened once, but from that we learn to grow thorns and harbor angry biting mites. we think of ourselves as boxes left taped up, left in an attic, untouchable. the dog in the yard, chained up just enough to drink from the filthy bowl. we learn to drown ourselves in bathtubs and showers and hand sanitizer in bathroom stalls until we feel just clean enough again- and like the others, i was not untouchable. no matter how many thorns i grew up my spine, between my burning thighs, the chest can not be pawed without spilling blood, it did not matter. the ring on your finger is the only reminder of a promise worth keeping.

sometimes, i think i let it happen.

sometimes, i think we let it happen to feel something again, in place of what should have been.

and i let it.

i let it happen.

i sang lullabies and gospel as i walked down the dirt road, away from the trailer home. the angels may forgive me, even if i can not forgive myself.

one day the boy asked me if i wanted to come over with everyone else in the friend group to watch a movie, the second thor movie, one i was excited for and he knew. we would all walk and it would be fun and we could eat pizza, he said. a kick back, smoking sounded appealing. plus, I had never been invited to hang out by a group of friends before. i walked beside ash, and she told me about the same song she mentioned earlier in the year at that science table. i held a can of grape soda in my hand, my lips sticky. i wore a shirt my dad gave me in third grade. there was a pebble in my shoe.

the trailer home was falling apart. i stepped over a tumbleweed and tripped through the front door only to be smacked in the face with cigarette smoke and dogs howling. his mom sat in the kitchen. she smelled like rotting fruit and diaper powder. walking down the hall, to his room, the couch with stained sheets and beer cans everywhere, piss stains and forgotten food. it felt familiar, like my grandparents unfinished basement i used to sleep in.

ash passed me a joint. i coughed. she laughed. everyone else laughed, too. it felt like comfort. the movie on, i had a group of friends for the first time, and maybe this was what it felt like to be a teenager. all stale smoke and broken lampshades and the empty moth cocoon that lay at your feet.

but it always begins the same way. when the fingers leave the bruises that never fully heal.

it always starts on a filthy couch. it always ends the same. with my body floating above me. the weight of his grown adult body on my own that had not even gone through puberty, it felt like that basement, too. suffocating, the dust particles covering the tongue i choke on. his breath smells like his bedroom. his hands feel like the still-hot-lighter-just-flicked, the noises he makes, it is a dog dying.

and as i close my eyes. i can not move. i am a stone being tossed off a bridge right into the river below.

i think-

it is my fault.

it is my fault.

this is the way it was not meant to happen.

my first kiss.

and it is my fault.

somewhere in between, his mother walks in. looks at the group of teenagers, drunk and high, looks at her son. I meet her eyes. hoping she would make him sit in the corner where he belonged. she laughs and shuts the door instead.

when he grows bored of my bloated corpse body, he finally gets off of me.

no one said anything.

they smoked and laughed and drank and i died there.

i make up an excuse about needing to go home.

a boy stops me on my way out the door.

he asks if i am okay.

i look like i saw a ghost, he said.

i took my ring off and slid it into my pocket.

sometimes, i reply.

and the rock is still stuck in my shoe.

[grieverled-moved]

It's been forever since they've sparred, maybe not long, but it feels like it's been more then a lifetime since they've done so without the animosity, without every other thing getting in the way to spur it on into a downwards spiral. Maybe his thoughts were wandering again, too far without a suitable tether to keep them in place as they sat, chests heaving, limbs bearing that pleasant ache of a training session gone right.

The heat of his breath as it fans out into the air ahead is warmed, something that makes him pause to brush a hand over his brow, clearing away any beading sweat that lingers on the edge of his brow. Too bad the space he's been seated against is a grimey, dried & dusty ground. Bits of dirt cluster here or there, but with the heat of the sun shining overhead, things feel near desert-like beneath it's harsh rays.

But even so, it all does little to take away from the whole experience, something Squall finds himself faintly smiling at as he rests his forearms over the bend of his knees, eyes shifting to study his precious blade as she rest on her side right by him, turning once he's satisfied to seek out his sparring partner with an amused thin of his sights.

Seifer looks far less winded, all in a way that makes the other gun-blader scoff with a pointed, exaggerated roll of his eyes when he catches the other swiping his hair back from where a few stray hairs clung to his forehead from the earlier fighting. In a way, while he'd garnered more skills, more experience in how to better handle himself, he was . . . not as adept in stamina. He grumbles internally about it being a side effect of being mostly deskbound, but that aside, even the mustered irritation holds little flame to the contentment that flickers warmly in his chest.

It's definitely been a while since they'd last fought against eachother in a neutral setting, familiar in the way it rung through his memories, hazy as they seemed, like the strum of fingers on an well-loved guitar. When he goes to glance down, readjusting where his pendent hangs, clinging uncomfortably to his sweaty collarbone, he doesn't notice when the other swordsman approaches, tawny brows furrowed - not until his hand is reaching over, creasing it's way into his field of view with a strange sort of hesitance.

But in as Seifer like way as Seifer himself could manage, he pushes through it, the seemingly indecisive action to wipe away at a spot just by his left brow, warmed thumb grazing along the edge of his scar in a way that has him freezing up, shoulders stiff with tension as he peers at the other in surprise. Eyes catch, brows furrow, but nothing else occurs, prompting the sigh that deflates from him when Seifer retreats with a swipe of his hand against his side, muttering something about dirt on his face.

It takes him an embarrassingly long minute, but once he comes to himself again, he barks out a short laugh, one that has his eyes crinkling in their mirth as he shifts to stand with a low grunt. His hand doesn't miss his blade, taking her with them as he removes his gloves, pocketing them before he wanders back into their designated sparring area with a nonchalant but goading look cast in the other's direction.

"Dirt, right." Comes the drawled comment in all it's monotonously amused glory. He'd normally tag an off-handed comment on about admiring his handiwork with the last scar he'd given, but something stops him at the last minute, instead, prompting him to hold his tongue as he turns around to better face him. Bracing the blunt end of Revolver against the bared curve of his shoulder, he jerks his chin in the blonde's direction. "Well, I think that's enough of a break, don't you think?"

Send “brush” to accidentally touch one of my muse’s scars ➤ @prideanddiscipline [ ; ] brush